


According to Brueghel

by listea



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asphyxiation, Ghosts, Infidelity, M/M, Sexual Content, Twinkies, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, ish, there is a prostitute, too many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-05-31 22:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listea/pseuds/listea
Summary: Contrary to what most people think, the Lazarus pit doesn't burn. It freezes.(Or: In the aftermath, it's not so much about the fall as the climb back up.)





	According to Brueghel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jellyfishphat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishphat/gifts).



> Hi jellyfishphat! All of your prompts were amazing, but I am ultimately a weak soul and didn't think I could satisfactorily write the spicer ones (this one actually started off as an attempt at writing porn but we can all see how that turned out >.>). And I heard you liked angst - so I hope this doesn't fall too far from your expectations! 
> 
> I want to say this fic is canon divergent, but that would assume it followed canon in the first part and I'm horrendously bad at timelines. So uh let's just assume this takes place in a timeline where Chemo never drops on Bludhaven. 
> 
> And all the love to Cal who was able to pick apart my word vomit and turn it into something coherent <3

_According to Brueghel_

_when Icarus fell_

_it was spring_

_-Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, William Carlos Williams_

 

 

 

 

Contrary to what most people think, the Lazarus pit doesn't burn. It freezes. Seven years after his climb out, Jason will still be able to recount with startling clarity the icy drag clouding his lungs, the sudden shock to his system that renders him breathless, the numbness that seeps inwards, so cold it stings. It drags his movements to a stuttered standstill, draining every bit of energy he has left until the only sound he can hear is that of his slowing heartbeat like the tick of a dying clock.

Talia will tell him later that he burst out of acid green waters screaming with the fury of a man possessed. But Jason remembers only the sudden lurch upwards, an impossible force applied to an object frozen in time, wrenching him nine circles up and out with a heaving gasp as his lungs fill with hot, damp air – a dead man's first breath.

\---

Surprisingly, after the whole shit show with death and everything, it's not Bruce that he crosses paths with first when he returns to Gotham.

He quietly follows a man back to his study after he finds him standing over a pretty little thing dead and bloodied in an alley. And as the bottle of wine kicks in, man slumping over in a drunken stupor, Jason creeps in through the window to deliver justice. It's one of his first kills after his return, a little messier than he would have wanted, blood splattering the oaken desk as the man had twisted last moment to see Jason's gun coming down on his head. So when Selina slides in through the window shortly after, Jason freezes, blood-stained hands and panicked eyes.

They stare at each other for a moment, Jason warily looking back into the calculating gazing behind her dark mask – then, jerks a thumb back at the metal box standing by the door with a curt, "The safe is that way." The taught lines in her shoulders loosen, _just slightly_ , and she tosses a carefully crafted, sly, smile in his direction.

"Didn't realize you birds were into making messes now."

He'd been so sure in the security of his mask, in the certainty of his supposed death, that the meaning of her words catch Jason unaware, breath leaving his lungs in a whoosh. He grabs his gun and turns tail to flee into the darkness when she chuckles and calls out behind him, "All of you, no matter what mask you wear, what disguise you try to throw yourself into, never change the one thing that matters. It's a Bat thing, I guess, running around like the weight of the world is on your shoulders."

Looking into the darkness, Jason pauses and turns back. "Are you going to -" he clears his throat, dry and dusty from the thrill of the pursuit. "Are you going to tell him?" He feels like he's fourteen again, hand caught in the cookie jar, and hates himself for that.

Her eyes blink at him slowly, luminous in the darkness, like a cat watching a flock of birds and she shrugs her slim shoulders. "It depends. Do you want me to?"

"No – But don't you care about -" he motions to the dead man lying on the desk in a pool of his own blood.

"Oh Robin," she laughs and bends over to begin opening the safe with quick, deft fingers. "The Bat and I tangle sometimes, but there are _many_ things we don't agree on. This guy – he wasn't a good man, no?"

"Not Robin, not anymore," he grits out, but shakes his head nonetheless.

Selina hums, popping open the door with a satisfied slink of her shoulders. "They say curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction brought it back. I've gone prodding in enough places that I should be dead twice over, but I'm still here aren't I? If there's one thing I've learned, it's that sometimes you got to do what you want, not what the world wants. Everything has a price so you better make sure it's damn well worth it. " She looks up with a lazy blink, hefting the weight of her bag over her shoulder. "What makes _you_ satisfied?"

Speechless, Jason watches her slip back out the window before he even thinks of asking her what the hell she means.

\--- 

It’s not too hard, scrounging your way through the Gotham. Not when he still has the streets memorized like the back of his hand and the brute force to back up his claim to power.

Two weeks after removing another one of Gotham's numerous crime bosses from power, Jason follows one lead out of Gotham, another lead back, circles within circles and somewhere along the way ends up in Bludhaven chasing the oil slick trail of corruption to finish off the rest of the gang. He tracks down the man responsible for most of their dirty dealings to a warehouse on the city port side, sifting through all the trash and hoodlum that come up on the way. It's no surprise that at the end of the day, even criminals run back to where they feel safest. Gotham might be the ugly sister of the family, but Bludhaven is the skulking, forgotten child with an aptitude for murder. And at the end of the day, while Gotham is seedy, Bludhaven with its foul, rotting core masks the most loathsome of smells.

Just one more explanation added to the multitude of reasons on why he avoids Bludhaven.

The sea salt breeze ruffles through his hair as rusted steel scaffolds loom ominously into the night air, illuminated only by the pale moonlight and a flickering lamp post near the waterside. They cast flickering shadows that elicit an unwanted icy chill in his chest even as he moves to apprehend the last man – another memory surging to the front. Shadowy figures in a monstrous pit – _almost like_ –

He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palm but shakes the thought away.

The logistics run through his head one last time. Aaron Colonel. Right hand man to crime boss Tibor Mitchell, whose head Jason had put a bullet through just a few weeks earlier. Tricky little bastard that could turn downright vicious when it came down to it. He'd taken down a whole building in his escape the first time Jason went after him in Gotham, and the resulting sprained wrist hadn't been fun at all. He’d fled to Bludhaven shortly after. Jason can still feel the soreness every time he flexes his left hand.

One more last loose end to tie up before he could finish and move on to whatever scum Gotham threw at him next.

\--- 

Colonel cuts a bulky silhouette against the moonlight, looking a little worse for the wear, hair trussed and suit wrinkled. The sneer on his face, however, is just as Jason remembers it when the building came down around them.

With one flick of his finger, he could send a bullet through his brain – just like his former boss. End his worthless existence right there and pay penance for all the crimes he'd committed. How different would he be then – dead on the ground like all those he had killed? Just one more blackened corpse underneath Jason's feet as he walks his path to justice.

 Except he’s not alone.

 When Jason steps into the moonlight, Colonel freezes, midway to accepting a sleek briefcase. There’s another man next to him, and a sniffling girl no more than _seven or eight honestly,_ between them.

Before he can think of anything else, he raises his gun. There's a scream and the sound of a gunshot ricochets throughout the warehouse – he can't tell which one comes first; the man crumples gracelessly to the ground and Jason's already stepping into the open, aiming his next shot as Colonel attempts to flee.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Jason taunts. "It always hurts more when you try to run."

Colonel pulls the girl in front of him, in one swift motion, backing up towards the entrance of the warehouse, gun in one hand, knife in the other. Awareness flickers across his features as Jason takes another step into the moonlight. "I should have known you'd be here," he says, tongue darting out to lick his lips nervously, but his eyes meet Jason's with a vicious stare. "Couldn't just leave it alone, couldn’t you?"

He makes to point the gun at Jason, but Jason is quicker, recoil of the gun like a whip against his hand, as he sends a bullet into Colonel's hand. The gun drops with a clatter, skittering across the floor as Colonel howls. There's a look in his eyes that Jason's seen a million times before on the streets of Gotham when prey meets predator, and it sends a thrill down his spine.

Colonel snarls and wraps an arm around the girl's neck, other hand bringing a knife to her throat. "Take one more step and she'll be dead before she hits the floor. There's always more from where she came from anyways."

"Didn't know you were into diddling little girls now," Jason snorts, but he tests the weight of his gun in his hand. It's steady in his hand, fitting seamlessly into his fingers having saved his ass more times than he can count.

"Not for me," Colonel shrugs and continues to make his way towards the door, "But business pickings have been real slim since you disposed of the boss and a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. They say her daddy's going to pay real nice for her." He looks at the girl's terrified face and smiles, mean like a cat that’s come across a mouse in a rat trap. "Nothing personal, darling."

"Reduced to nothing more than kidnapping and ransoms. And here you and your boss were boasting about running Gotham just a month ago."

"A million dollars is a millions dollars. Nice cars don't pay for themselves, you know? And I didn’t know you cared about little girls now. You rubbing shoulders with the Bats now, Hood?”

Something white hot spikes in Jason's temple. "Who said I cared for her?" he bites out angrily. Colonel doesn't look concerned, though, walking back at a leisurely pace. He presses the knife to the girl's neck hard enough to draw a bead of blood. Frustration bubbles up and Jason bites his lip angrily, hyper aware of every movement in the warehouse. His heartbeat pounds in his ears like the crash of the waves outside and as blood spills into his mouth, he tastes the brine and salt of the sea. If Colonel gets away now, who knows how long it would take Jason to track him down again.

The seaside breeze runs through his hair and there's the chill again, an icy fist squeezing his chest and Talia's whisper in his ears like the calling of the void. _You remain unavenged_.

Jason levels the gun at the girl's head and watches as her face crumbles like paper put to flame. There's a sick curl of satisfaction in his stomach as Colonel falters.

"You – A flicker of hesitation splinters Colonel's façade – for the first time questioning if he had made a mistake, miscalculated Jason. And Jason wants to laugh as an ugly anger twists itself through his veins because that couldn't be further from the truth if he had tried. That's the problem with people like Colonel, he thinks, they think too small, corralling themselves in a corner they can't get out of. It's the same thing with Batman and Superman and all the other heroes who thought they could do good. Unlike Jason, they didn't understand that to control you needed to destroy, and Jason with his ache for vengeance had gotten _so good_ at destruction.

"Do it then," Fletcher demands, face drawn tight with pain but he leers. "Kill me. And her." Jason can decipher the glint in his eyes _I'm calling your bluff_.

He stares long and hard at Colonel's bloodthirsty grin, calloused fingers winding through golden hair, confidence settling into shoulders with the sleazy ease of a man who's talked his way out of a traffic stop. It wouldn't hurt much for her at least, he thinks. Colonel would have to be quick if he wanted to make good on his promise, a quick slash to the carotid artery as soon as he sees Jason's finger twitch for the trigger. It'd be a pity, but he's chased Colonel too long to give him up now. And a good riddance to the world it would be. Jason thinks of leering grins, of men who think they can make the world theirs, of –

Russia with bloodied knuckles and cries in deafening snow; ice in his hair, in his eyes, in his veins. People – no _children_ – lined up in a row like tin soldiers to burn in the incorrigible flame of the worst humanity had to offer. And something insidious inside him freezes. His finger twitches, but he can't pull the trigger. His eyes flicker up and in an instant, the realization passes between them and Colonel smiles victoriously, taking the opportunity to drop the girl and snatch his gun.

Jason curses as he stares down at the barrel of a gun for the third time that week. _Stupid_. All those years of training just to freeze now.

"Well – " Colonel starts, straightening up. "Since we've come to this consensus. I'll just – "

Jason reaches into his back pocket and jams the button of his last case scenario, doomsday button. The roar of the explosion overhead masks whatever Colonel had wanted to say and he staggers down as the ground shakes. Chunks of steel and wood come crashing down in a hellstorm of fire and smoke like the world is crumbling around them. Colonel drops the girl and she bolts. For a second, Jason freezes, then scoops her up and runs.

A scream rings out and Jason looks back over his shoulder to see a beam come crashing down to pin Colonel in the fury of the inferno. Jason's legs burn under the strain, lungs squeezed so tight he thinks he's going to suffocate, as he barrels towards the exit, but he manages to send one last "That's for last time, _asshole_." before diving through the falling window.

They burst outside in an ashy heap and as Jason lets the girl tumble unceremoniously to the ground, he bends over to catch his breath, throat drawn tight and heaving. For the first time since she entered the warehouse, the girl begins to cry, and Jason remembers just how young she is. When Jason was her age, his mother had still been alive. His throat closes up.

He places a hand on her shoulder. "Hey kid, don't look back," Jason says, voice scratchy from the smoke, awkward and halting like trying to fit ball in a box. It feels all wrong around the edges in the same way confessions hurt so much yet fight so hard to find their way out. But the words tumble out of his mouth gentler than he's been in years. "You did good."

Her eyes scrunch up, though she continues to sob dry, heaving gasps. She lets Jason steer her away from the burning warehouse, away from the sea, into the darkness – now lit up the faint lights of the cops steadily drawing closer. But Jason's can't look away, has never been good at looking away, and he continues to stare into the fiery light, as if it could thaw the ever present icy grip in his chest. He stays until his skin is seared raw and it's too dangerous to stay longer, cop cars only a distance away.

But before he slips off into the night again, he takes one last look at the police swarming the girl, the building, the port, and sees a too familiar head of hair that makes his stomach drop. He flees into the night.

\---

Jason still fondly remembers the way he had disposed of Colonel's boss with a can of gasoline and matches. His gun is brutally efficient, but fire is nice too – especially when he can stand over the blaze and warm his chilly fingers. For all the jackets he wears, it's like his circulation never recovered from his time spent in the underworld.

(The man had sat tied up in his desk shivering and doused with oil, though he'd been feisty enough to spit a " _Go to hell_ " at Jason when approached.

And looking at him for a moment, Jason had thought of the Pit, of drowning in water so cold it burned, then shrugged and said, "Been there, still there. Smells like ass by the way, if you're wondering.")

\---

When he turns on the TV, there’s a short story running about the Justice League taking on mysterious aliens in Nevada and Jason changes it quickly. In the next channel, a different reporter speaks to him from the blue glow of the television screen and Jason pauses eating his Chinese takeout.

It's the warehouse. Or what used to be the warehouse before Jason got to it. The reporter drones on about a mysterious explosion that had taken place with all the apathy of a Bludhavenite who's seen far more dangerous crimes. To be fair, Jason hadn't planned on burning the place down and it wasn't like anyone was going to use it anytime soon. Maybe Bludhaven could do something useful with the piece of land for once like build a better movie theater. Although knowing the state of Bludhaven's Mayor's office, Jason doubts anything will be greenlit in the next decade or so.

When the footage cuts to a group of police officers gathered around the scene that Jason feels a twist in his gut, like being blindfolded and squeezed into a coffin six feet under, no one to hear him scream. One of the officers breaks away from the group to talk to the reporter on site and Jason clutches his chopsticks so hard they break.

Ignoring the warehouse fiasco, it'd been months since he last saw Dick Grayson and even longer since he last spoke to him, but the memory of their last encounter in Gotham turns his mouth sour and he pushes his plate of sweet and sour chicken away. He had been too busy chasing Batman back then to even glance at Grayson, blinded by the hurt, the rage, the injustice of the world. Caught up in the want of just making Bruce stop for once in his life and _see_ what he did _._ And then everything happened with the Joker and any possible thought of Grayson had been pushed clean out of his mind.

Sitting in his living room, this is the first time he's had the chance to actually look at him. And staring into Grayson's somber face on television, he feels the ugly churn in his stomach again. Somehow even after all these years, a surge of memories wells up within him, too raw, too painful to consider. Jason swallows hard and reaches to flick the channel again.

It's the next few words that catch his attention and he pauses, hand hovering above the remote.

"- tell us more about the incident, Officer?"

"We're still investigating, but it seems like a case of kidnapping and arson gone wrong. We've identified one of the victims as Aaron Colonel, who had been tied to Gotham gang activities in the past," Grayson says, voice muffled from the screen. Jason turns the volume up and leans in closer, staring at the screen so hard, he can feel his eyes drying out.

"And the other?" The reporter prompts, pressing her microphone closer to Grayson's face. “Rumours say Yakov Erikson was involved. He was an upstanding member of the community and it’d be a tragedy to lose him so soon.”

Jason snorts. _Upstanding member of the community. Yeah, right._ The guy had kidnapped a girl from her home and almost sold her to a known criminal. It makes sense though. If the girl's father had been as wealthy and respected as Colonel made him out to be, it explains how Erikson had access to her. Jason's been in Bludhaven long enough to not even be surprised.

Grayson shakes his head. "We can't comment on anything else since this is still an active investigation."

"But hasn’t the Bludhaven police department investigated Erikson before? Is there any reason to believe there might be more going on here than just a simple case of arson?" The reporter presses. And Jason straightens up, narrowing his eyes at the small figure of Grayson on the screen standing in front of the still smoking warehouse. As incompetent and corrupt as the Bludhaven police force was, this would provide them with the opening they needed to actually start investigating the corrupt dealings of the local politicians. _Come on Grayson. Do something right for once in your life_.

There's a slight grimace on Grayson's fuzzy face, and it's been years since Jason last saw him, but he still recognizes the slight tightening around his eyes. "Nothing we are aware of."

_Bullshit._

Jason turns the television off and flings the remote at the screen.

(He's not sure why he's surprised at this point. Doesn't know why he let that little glimmer of hope consume him when he should have learned, had learned, all those years ago when he took a crowbar to the head and clawed his way out of death, everything wrong and nothing right.

These days he doesn't trust anyone but himself and his gun and it works out just fine, except for the occasional chill in his chest, like there's a pile of ice there instead of beating heart- a parting gift from the Lazarus Pit if you will. He thinks of the last time he saw Selina – _What makes you satisfied_? Well, for one, the recoil of his gun, steady in his hand – the knowledge that every time he shoots, he's sending one more fucker down to hell where he belongs – even if Jason has to give up himself bit by bit to do it. It's not about the consequences or the price, it's about doing what has to be done regardless.

And that works just fine for him. _)_

\---

For all the lowlifes and thugs in Gotham, there's just as many in Bludhaven and Jason makes a game out of hunting them down one by one, teasing out whatever information he can before leaving them dead in front of the Bludhaven police station – a colossal middle finger they can't ignore. Sometimes he lingers around to see the reactions. Like a cat showing off its kill, Jason thinks amused, wondering what Selina would think of that one, because _hey_ , never let anyone say he hadn't embraced the crazy.

It turns out Erikson had his fingers in a lot of pockets, involved in everything from money laundering to human trafficking. And it just infuriates Jason even more, because there's _no fucking way_ the Bludhaven police were unaware of his activities. Erikson hadn't exactly been subtle, although it turns out he hadn't needed to be when the whole city was just willing to turn a blind eye to what he had been doing. It makes it easy, though , to track down those working for him, and gradually Jason makes his way up the food chain, moving from informants to middlemen to small local officials, sending ripples through Bludhaven's not-so-underground crime scene. He's sure if Bludhaven hadn't noticed him back then, they definitely did now.

 _Try to ignore me_ , he taunts with every carefully placed corpse, _and see what happens_.

As if bracing for the inevitable storm, Erikson's previous associates begin to close in together. A few go into hiding before Jason can reach them and the rest beef up their security so that Jason has to actually stop and strategize how he can take down ten other men before going down himself. Sometimes it's kind of fun. It’s easy when he forgoes self-preservation for the thrill of the chase, leaping in guns blazing, because no one ever expects him to do what he does. It's also so _easy_ for him to read what the hired muscle will do when they are what the name implies, _hired muscle_. No personal stake, no desperation – just another job for them to do. Unlike Jason who'd learned firsthand what the will of a dying man could do.

After all, he was a dead man walking, wasn't he? Had been ever since he clawed his way out of his coffin. He guesses the better question would be if he had ever been alive after coming back, because he was supposed to have died that day protecting Sheila Haywood in the desert – at least until the universe had made the colossal mistake of spitting him out again alive. Deep down Jason still waits for that day when the universe catches up with itself and comes back with an _oopsie, you aren't supposed to be alive are you?_ And when you have that thought looming over your head every day, it's hard not to throw yourself into each day without the desperation of a dying man.

So somewhere down the line he gets a little cocky, a little too sure of his abilities when measured in units of desperation. He'd moved onto the mid-ranking officials after the last low-ranking official working under Erikson had turned tail and fled town, and the new ones are a little smarter, a little more paranoid, a little deeper into their depths of depravity. They're smarter than their dumb lackeys, with more money to spend and more power to lose. Jason starts leaving their encounters with bruises to his jaw, flesh wounds to the side, but he doesn't stop, can't stop, making sure to leave their dead bodies in front of the city council building instead. At least until the last one.

He had just finished trussing the target up when the sound of sirens comes alive behind him. The rest of the security guards should have been taken out already, but Jason turns around just in time to see a blood-stained phone drop from one of the guard's hands. He leaps to bash the guy's head into the floor again, this time making sure he stays down. He shoots the phone once, twice, making sure no one will be able to use it again, but it's too late, the call had gone through. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Jason listens as the sirens draw closer until they're just outside the door.

Another day he might have welcomed the opportunity to rub his kill in the officers' faces, but he'd taken an unexpected gunshot wound to the thigh. Though he'd managed to bandage the wound up, when he looks out the window, he can see a police car pulling into the driveway below, and he knows he won't have enough time to finish the rest of the job.

But a part of him thinks of how _insulting_ it is that Bludhaven PD thought that he could be handled by a pair of officers; another part of him looks at the piece of scum tied up in the kitchen then the approaching silhouettes approaching the door, and figures he'd rather die trying than leave.

Jason lunges at the first officer as soon as they break the door down. The officer fires instinctively, and a bullet grazes the top of his head. A foot catches him in the stomach, but he grabs his gun and unloads a bullet into the guy's shoulder. Jason jams his elbow into the guy’s head for good measure. He crumples like a can and Jason turns to the other officer just in time to receive an elbow to the back, fingers encircling his wrist like a vice and he's forced to drop his gun. Caught, Jason looks up panting and freezes.

It's not the gun pointed at him that has the hairs on the back of his neck rising, but the man behind the gun. _Just his luck_.

His face is inscrutable behind the glint of the metal and Jason stares at him for a second before fighting down the urge to laugh bitterly. Of course, it would be Grayson. He would have known that someone was hunting down Erikson's associates and was probably monitoring the very same people that Jason had on his list. For him it wasn't a matter of if Jason struck again, but _when_. When the call inevitably came in, _he'd been ready_. It's like Jason can't escape him these days, and he can't stop the inevitable jeer that rises to his lips.

"Using a gun now, huh? What would _daddy_ say?"

To his dark satisfaction, Grayson's knuckles whiten around the grip of his gun and he recoils in surprise. Jason stores that piece of knowledge away. Yeah, Dick was prepared for someone, but he wasn't prepared for Jason. Dick doesn't miss a beat, however, before opening his mouth to retort, "You tell me. Probably the same thing he would say if he saw you running around killing people like Veronica from _The Heathers."_

 _Oh._ Jason hates the familiarity associated with the low timbre of Grayson's voice. How long had he looked up to him? Chased after his attention pathetically like a dog chasing scraps, before adoration turned into jealousy into hate. He must have known that Jason came back, that he’d traded cape and spandex for a red mask and guns – probably from the Bat if Jason had to put his money on it – but Jason wonders just what else he knows. Did Batman tell him about how he slipped explosives strong enough to blow up a skyscraper under the Batmobile? Did he know how Jason had put a gun to his head and forced Bruce to choose between him and the Joker? And did he now who Bruce had chosen?

"Comparing me to a girl who fights the societal status quo in favor of the downtrodden? How astute. Didn't realize you thought of me that way," Jason throws back at him, taking a step forwards. "I'm flattered, really."

To his credit, Grayson doesn't waver and his expression turns disdainful. "I was thinking more like a spoiled child seeking attention. What the hell happened to you?"

 _Ouch_. In the time he'd been gone Jason forgot just how easily Grayson could get under your skin. He’d perfected the art or something when he was nine and running around in little green boy shorts, although Jason has no idea where he got it from, because it certainly wasn't Bruce.

Jason digs his fingernails into his palm and tries not to let it get to him. Grayson might have a shiny badge and a blue-issued uniform, but he was still a Bat through and through. No matter how much he tried to shrug off the shadow of Gotham, he had bled and trained under the cape of Batman, and that's something that can't be forgotten easily – Jason would know. It was obvious from the way he gripped the gun with a line of discomfort settling in his shoulders, and how he kept sneaking glances at his fallen partner.

As always, the golden boy is predictable – allowing Jason to stay two steps ahead of him despite his bum leg and lack of a gun.

Jason flickers his eyes at the councilwoman still tied up in the corner who was starting to stir and Grayson follows his gaze. Just briefly. But it's enough of an opening that Jason leaps forwards, eyes closed, expecting the telltale sound of a gunshot, a sharp pain in his chest before the warm seep of blood spreads through his shirt. A rush of confidence surges through him when there is none and he lets his momentum barrel forwards.

Grayson curses but Jason feels a slow Cheshire grin spreading across his face. "Too slow, Dickie bird," he mocks. Grayson's eyes widen and they go down in a tumble. Dick might have the advantage of two fully functioning legs and a night's sleep over Jason, but he doesn't know how to fight dirty like Jason does, doesn't have the capacity to aim for the kill. Jason takes advantage of the chaos to grab a chair and bring it down on Grayson's thigh.

Grayson staggers down and Jason takes the brief chance to push his hair back out of his eyes and break out of the tangle. "Now we're even." He crooks a finger at Grayson's pale face and smiles. "Come on, isn't this what you want? To put me down so I can't go around killing people anymore?"

"You know I would never want that," Grayson says, eyes glinting under the jaundiced yellow light. "But now I'm thinking Batman should have put you away when he had the chance." He ducks under Jason's swinging arm and swings around the kitchen counter to lob a blow into the side of Jason's head.

"Just one more failure to add to his list then. It's been getting long recently. How does it feel to be on the receiving end of this one?" Jason catches the punch easily and leverages the momentum into a roundhouse kick at Grayson's weak leg, brain falling back into autopilot.

" _He loved you_ ," Grayson hisses.

Jason balls his fingers into fists, twisting his way out of another blow sent his way. "And fat amount of good that did me, when I ended up six feet under suffocating in my _own_ coffin. And what do I find when I claw my way out? That he's replaced me with a dumb kid who looks like he can't even stand up to his own _mum."_

A flicker of emotion too fast to catch crosses Grayson's face, but before Jason can call him out on it, it's gone, replaced only by a look of resolute determination. "Tim's a damn better Robin than you ever were," Grayson retorts and Jason snarls with frustration.

"That's fine. If there's one thing I learned when I was away, it's that what the old Bat does just doesn't cut it. All your talk of justice and Robins doesn’t mean crap when you can't even put a single man in jail. I guess if there's something we've inherited from the old man, it's _failure_. I couldn't save my mother, he couldn't avenge me, and now you can't scrounge up enough evidence to even _point fingers_ at Erikson who was running around in practically broad daylight. If that's what it means to be a Robin, _I don't want it_."

"Erikson? You don't know what the hell you're talking about." Grayson runs a hand through his sweaty hair and all of a sudden, he looks so weary. "You think it's that easy? You think I don't know about what Erikson had been doing before you came into the picture? I can't do what you do and just point a gun at everyone I suspect." He throws an elbow at Jason's face. " _I'm doing the best under the circumstances, goddammit._ "

"I'm telling you, if that's the best you can do, you've got a lot to reevaluate. He was found dead in a warehouse with a _known mobster_. How does that not give you the leeway into investigating him?"

"Maybe if _someone_ didn't burn down the entire building in a freak accident -"

Well he can't deny that one. "Oh that's rich. Is that what you're calling it now? A freak accident? And of course you knew it was me -"

"You always did have a flair for dramatics -"

"Says the circus boy, " Jason sneers. "But just look around you. The evidence is everywhere. Look at the financial records of the city hall, his bank statements. I did more in a day by killing him than you've done in months."

"And you know what happens now? He's dead and we won't be able to pin anything on him because all the evidence is gone and there's _so much_ pressure from the higher ups to just move on. We've been flushing out all the officers in his pocket and building a case against him. You think he was working alone? Now they're just going to put a new guy in his place with who's just as corrupt, just as underhanded, and we're going to have to start all over again. _That's what happens if you don't do it the right way._ "

Jason twists out of Grayson's grip and finally connects a punch to his face. "The right way? You mean letting him continue kidnapping _children_ and putting hits on people?"

"If the alternative is to kill him and let the cycle continue, then _yes._ It's the price we pay to prevent it from happening again," Grayson says, hand clutching his jaw and staggering back. He wipes away a smear of blood on his lips and looks up.

Jason's about to retort _no, this isn't the way_ , _there has to be something more than this_ , because he deserved better, the _people_ deserved better, when a searing pain shoots up his foot and he stumbles forwards. _Motherfucker_.

Grayson's partner had awoken, hand wrapped around the handle of his smoking gun, looking dazed and unsteady. At this rate, he'd probably misfire and hit Grayson instead of Jason. The thought is almost tempting enough for Jason to stick around and see what the fallout would be. But when he takes another step, his leg finally buckles underneath him, burning like a bitch, and Jason finally admits the limits of his endurance. Judging by the way Grayson's looking at him, he knows too.

"Your time's up, Todd. I've called for backup already. If you come in quietly, we can figure something out."

"Do you even hear yourself? _You're time's up_. Been watching a little too many cop movies lately?" he mimics. Jason drops to the ground, narrowly missing another bullet that grazes his sleeve, and rolls to the side, grabbing his gun. "This won't end, no matter how much you stick your heads into the sand and try to ignore what's happening around you."

He slams the butt of his gun down on Grayson's partner's head and wobbles up on his feet unsteadily. The whine of sirens in the distance is drawing closer and Jason takes that as his leave to go. He can't leave without what he came for, though, and he ignores the throb in his leg as he points the gun at the councilwoman, still tied up and unconscious. It's a shame he won't be able to drag her body to rot in front of the city hall she had worked in.

A blur of blue crosses his vision and shaking from exhaustion, Jason's arm jerks, causing him to misfire. He stares down incredulously. "Are you _fucking_ kidding me _?"_

Grayson's mouth parts in a soundless gasp as he falls, blood seeping through the sleeve of his shirt.

"You'd save her after all that she's done?"

He raises his hand to shoot once more, but the sound of footsteps echoes through the stairway outside.

"Don't think this is over," he mutters darkly staring at where Grayson's slumped against the wall, trying to stem the bleeding in his shoulder.

"Of course not." Grayson says in a half-laugh, half-choke, but he winces he rests his head against the wall. Before any regrets can seize him, Jason leaps out of the window just as the cops barge in for the second time that evening.

Grayson was right. He _did_ have a flair for drama.

\---

In full disclosure, Jason finds it ironic that Dick Grayson is one to talk about the price of justice. Sure Grayson's parents were dead yadda yadda yadda, but so were the parents of most of the people in their line of work. Look at Bruce, look at himself, they didn't have parents either. And Grayson had been fortunate enough to be picked up and raised by a Gotham millionaire – even if it did turn out to be Batman. For all his faults and tragedies, he’d turned out remarkably well-adjusted.

So yeah, you could say Jason resents Grayson – just a little bit. Somewhere down the line, admiration dissolved into jealousy into resentment, and now he can't look at Grayson without thinking _this is how you could have been_. If he had just been a little quicker that day, if Bruce had cared about him a little more, if all the fury and thirst for vengeance hadn't twisted themselves so deep in his bones that he knows he'll never dig them out. The list goes on.

He wonders what it's called when you're crushed so far by self-loathing and revenge that you come out the other end just _wrong_.

Because if there's one thing Jason's certain of himself, it's that he hadn't been pulled out of the pit right. Call it a screw loose, if you will. Something in him isn't nailed down right, crashing around as he stumbles through life like a bull in a china shop. There's a ceaseless ache for vengeance in his soul and a chill in his chest that will never go away no matter how many people he kills, no matter how many people he drags down with him into the depths of his depravity.

He picked up a twin pair of scars between his shoulder blades sometime between when he crawled out of the grave and Talia pushed him into the pit. They're gnarled and jagged, twisting through his back like someone had taken a plow to the Earth and dragged, leaving a parallel row of twisted destruction. He doesn't remember when he got them, but every time he runs his hand down his back, he feels their alien ridges knotted in flesh.

But he doesn't really mind – they’re just one more pair of scars in addition to the marks crisscrossing his skin – until Talia sends him to train with one of her associates in Paris.

"They're like little worms," the professor Jason is learning _Atemi Ju-_ Jitsu from says one day as they're cleaning up for the night. And he pinches two of his fingers together and squints. " _Le ver de terre_."

He's a strange guy. An eccentric classics professor during the day, underground fight club manager during the night, hosting tournaments in an abandoned subway station as the city thrums with life around them. Jason never finds out how the professor knows Talia or why he knows so much about martial arts, but he does pick up an inclination for French literature during his stay.

Jason scowls and continues to roll up the mat on the ground. It hadn't been a good day and he's sure he's going to wake up the next morning with multiple bruises. "What?"

"The scars on your back." The professor peers at him curiously. "May I?"

Stiffening, Jason turns and holds his breath as the professor hums and touches the roping scars lightly. Touch is an iffy thing. With every glancing brush of fingers against his skin, he resists the urge lash out.

"Maybe not worms," the professor acquiesces and steps back, his eyes alight with an electric energy. "Ah what's the English word?"

"Huh?"

"You know like in – _Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven,_ " he quotes, snapping his fingers and glancing around like he could find the missing translation tucked in a dusty corner somewhere around the gym.

"Did you just quote Satan at me?" Jason asks incredulously.

The professor stops, curly hair flying out in all sorts of directions. "Ah _yes_ , Satan's fall. Your scars, it's like pulling the wings off a bird, you see?" He's grinning like a madman – until Jason punches him in the face.

So yeah. It's a sensitive subject now.

\---

It gets a lot harder to track down anyone after the run-in with Grayson, not that it matters much since Jason's pretty much out of action until his leg stops throbbing every time he puts pressure on it. The fact that he sees the councilwoman on TV the next day shamelessly thanking Bludhaven PD doesn't make it much better – every time he sees her stupid face on the screen he wants to put a fist in the screen.

He pulls records from the Bludhaven police department and starts to look through dismissals within the last year or two. It takes him a couple of hours, but by the end he has a pile a couple of inches thick with infractions ranging from petty theft to manslaughter. (There's also one he saves carefully to the side describing the antics of an unnamed officer who came in inebriated to work and proceeded to arrest himself for drunk driving, but he digresses).

A bunch of dismissals coming in the past month have reasons rooted in bribery of some sort, however, and intrigued, Jason pulls out their files again and spreads them across the table.

Two of them were dismissed within the last week, and three in the week before that. Jason's heartbeat quickens as he pours through their files, all of them working under a case revolving Walter Fletcher that had been mysteriously dropped a month ago. It was too lucky to just be a coincidence.

He scrambles for a file on Fletcher, vaguely remembering looking over this guy before coming into Bludhaven. Nothing had registered about him at the time, and Jason had been too focused on hunting down Colonel to give a crap about the other hundred corrupt officials in Bludhaven. But Jason scans over his file again, and pauses. _Head of the Department of Transportation_. Erikson had worked there, hadn't he? Jason reaches over to Erikson's file and cross-references it just to make sure. Bingo.

\---

"Did you hear?"

"Hear what?" Jason schmoozes his way up to the bar and does his best to put on a snotty rich kid impression. The drink in his hand probably costs more than a week's rent at Jason's apartment and he swirls it awkwardly – a move he'd seen someone do in a movie once. The collar of his shirt is annoyingly tight against his neck and he fights the urge to yank it looser under his leather jacket. He's never understood the way rich people dress when going out.

Fletcher hasn't shown up yet, but Jason's sure he'll show up soon, as he seems to swing by this club every week like clockwork.

" _The aliens_ ," the guy next to him says, hands gesturing wildly and spilling his drink on his expensive-looking shirt. " _They're com –_ oh shit. Can I get another drink please?"

The bartender levels a look at him, but slides another glass over. Just another youth out for a night of debauchery with Bludhaven's wealthiest, Jason snorts. And it's not even ten. He peeks at the door again. Nothing.

"I'm sure Superman's got it all covered," he says casually, pretending to take another swig from his cup.

"Nah man, they're making their way across the country. Didn't you see the news? Seventy dead already." The guy shakes his head and fiddles with the shiny watch on his wrist. "They wrecked Louisville last night and that's in _Kentucky_. My dad says we can go to Europe if things get worse. We've got a country house in Nice where we can bunker down in until it's all over."

"Really now," Jason says drily. He pretends to lean too far forwards into his drink and almost falls off his stool, catching himself on the guy's shoulder as he does so. "Sorry man, had a little too much you know."

"Nah it's cool," the guy waves off, face flushed as he keeps talking. Discretely, Jason pockets the watch he had slipped off the guy as he caught himself. "But yeah, so this house right – it's got all the new state of the art technology." He grins and sways slightly. "I'd like to watch any aliens get past our new security system."

"That's nice." Jason doesn't even bother trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice this time. He slides off his stool when he sees Fletcher coming in through the door, bodyguards in tow, and fastens the watch around his wrist.

" _Hey_ -" The guy says. "Don't you wanna hear about -"

"Nope."

Jason makes his way across the floor to where Fletcher is chatting up a pretty blonde. One of his bodyguards is across the room, scanning the crowded bar for any threats. The other is five feet away from Jason, pretending not to notice his boss getting handsy with the girl in front of him. Poor guy. Jason can't imagine having to watch his pork-faced boss get down to doing the dirty no matter how much he was paid.

He squeezes through a handsy couple. He'll never get used to this, he thinks. The unrestrained hedonism, the deluge of luxury. Gold and diamonds spilling over bare skin, more wealth than what most people would know to do with. It's kind of disgusting.

As he passes by Fletcher, he pretends to stumble, dumping his drink all over Fletcher's shirt.

"The fuck?" Fletcher jerks back with a snarl and he twists around to stare down at Jason angrily. He's taller than the picture in the file had made him look.

Jason's eyes widen and he attempts to clumsily pat down Fletcher’s. "I'm so sorry," he says, forcing out a nervous laugh. "Had a little too much to drink, you know?"

Fletcher doesn't look appeased and he reaches out to grab the collar of Jason's shirt, hauling him bodily upwards. He stares haughtily at Jason, unimpressed. "This shirt costs more than your entire paycheck, kid." _Hey_. This was the best dress shirt Jason owned and it honestly doesn't look that bad. But he pretends to be cowed by Fletcher's anger, feeling a prickle of irritation as he hides his clenched fists.

Noticing the commotion, one of Fletcher's bodyguards turns his head in their direction and Jason forces himself to think beyond the suffocating tightness of his collar digging into his skin. If he doesn’t de-escalate the situation, he's going to have a lot more on his hands than an angry Fletcher. Placing his hands in the air, Jason glances at the bodyguards with wide eyes before looking up at Fletcher.

"How about I buy you a drink? And then tomorrow I'll send you the cash to buy a new shirt?" Jason wheezes as Fletcher's grip tightens.

Fletcher snorts. "You? I doubt you could afford a hair on my head."

"Hey, you'd be surprised," Jason counters. He runs a hand through his hair and makes sure the golden watch on his wrist flashes in front of him. "How about two drinks?"

Fletcher's eyes flicker to the watch on Jason's wrist and _whoa_ whatever watch the kid had, it must be good, because his expression shifts to something a little more like _approval_ and his grip loosens. He winds an arm around the leggy blonde who had been staring at their interaction with wide eyes and pulls her close. He slaps another hand on Jason's back with a smirk and waves his bodyguard off. "Make it three drinks – one for my girl here – and it's a deal."

Jason murmurs his assent with a tight smile and brushes his hand against the gun tucked in his jacket before following Fletcher to a private room. _Perfect._

The room is dimly lit by hanging lights that cast a warm glow over plush couches and a sleek coffee table in the middle. Fletcher ushers them in and Jason takes a tentative seat on one overstuffed chair, scanning the room for any threats. There's no windows, but Jason figures he could shoot Fletcher, then the girl, and take off before anyone would notice. The music of the bar outside isn't loud enough to cover up the sound of a gunshot, but Jason would be quick. A bullet to the head for each of them and he could slip out, mixing in with the rest of the crowd outside. By the time the police came, or by the time Fletcher's bodyguards came looking for him, he'd be long gone.

"Three glasses of the usual," Fletcher says to the waiter at the door. He mutters something under his breath that Jason can't catch then looks up and smirks. "On his tab."

Jason shrugs, and lounges back in the chair, imagining Fletcher's terrified face staring up at him when Jason finally revealed himself. Might as well enjoy himself while he's here.

The waiter reappears with three round glasses and Fletcher passes them around. "Cognac," he nods at Jason when Jason raises an eyebrow questioningly. He sits back, pleased. "One of my favorites. This one can go for a couple grand a bottle. But you know, nothing but the best for my girl," he wraps an arm around the girl and pulls her close as she giggles.

"Cheers to the generosity of Mr. -?"

"Uh, Todd," Jason clears his throat.

"Cheers to the generosity of Mr. Todd then." Fletcher raises his glass and Jason takes a tentative sip, wincing at the burn as it goes down his throat.

He forces a smile to his face. "My pleasure."

"So," Fletcher sets his glass down and leans forwards, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers. "Tell me what a man like you is doing here?"

Jason keeps his face carefully blanks as he tries to understand what Fletcher means. A man like him? He shrugs his shoulders. "You know, a guy's gotta get out and have fun every once in a while. Heard this was one of Bludhaven's finest establishments and figured I'd check it out myself."

"Oh really?" Fletcher leans forward intrigued. "I suppose I would have to agree with you there. I do like to come here myself. There's nowhere better than here when you just want to unwind and forget yourself. You know, as head of the Bludhaven Transportation Department, work gets tiring real easily."

"Of course," Jason demurs. "I can't imagine the amount of work a man like you has to go through each day." He pretends to stretch, shifting until he can feel the press of his gun against his hip. Now he just has to find an opening to pull it out once Fletcher stops staring at him like a hawk. Jason offers a charming smile, doing his best impression of a star-struck, impressionable youth. "It seems that ever since you came into office, the city transportation become ten times more efficient. Must be all the hard work you've been putting in."

"I agree," the girl laughs for the first time. She curls a hand around Fletcher's elbow and leans in with a coy smile. "Really, how do you find time to do everything?"

Fletcher grunts and runs a hand through his rumpled hair, the animosity from before partially diminished. He looks slightly flattered at the attention and the hard edge to his eyes soften. "Well, you know, it takes a couple of late nights. Especially with all the trouble that's been going on lately. Some of the workers at Central Station are on strike. The bridge needs fixing. And don't even get me started on the whole alien fiasco."

"Right," Jason murmurs, taking another sip of his drink. He considers the time it would take to draw out his gun and shoot Fletcher in the head, but Fletcher's staring at Jason with that odd stare of his. "Someone mentioned something about that. Heard they were in Kansas chumming it up with Dorothy or some shit."

" _Kentucky_ ," the girl says.

Jason raises his hands defensively. "Kansas, Kentucky. It makes no difference to me as long as they don't come poking around in Bludhaven."

"Didn't you hear, Mr. Todd? They say they’re making their way to the East coast next. I wonder what they want."

"Nah, they've been coming after Earth every couple of years now. At least they try before the Justice League kicks them back to whatever godforsaken planet they come from," Jason shrugs. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

"But -"

"Mr. Todd is right. There's no use worrying about faraway possibilities. We might as well enjoy ourselves while we can." Fletcher cuts in with a raise of his glass. He tilts his head. "It's funny though. I would have thought with the state of your company right now that you'd be stuck in the office until sundown."

Jason freezes. _What the fuck?_ He curls his fingers tighter around his glass and sits up straighter. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Really?" A wave of dizziness overcomes Jason and he squints at Fletcher who is suddenly swaying alarmingly.

"Mr. Fletcher -"

Fletcher reaches out and grabs Jason's wrist before he can pull away. His grip is so tight, the metal of the watch digs painfully into Jason's skin, and he taps the gleaming glass of the watch. "That is the Rossi family watch isn't it? But you're not their son, are you? I guess the better question is, what exactly do you want, Mr. Todd?"

Jason blinks furiously and realizes suddenly that it's not Fletcher who is swaying, but himself. The glass tumbles out of his hand with a dull thud, the sound of a bird hitting a window, and he hears a scream as the floor comes rushing forwards. As Jason struggles to push himself up, Fletcher's face appears startlingly close, garish grin stretched across his face. He feels weightless, pushing back against a wave of darkness that threatens to engulf his vision.

"I knew from the moment you flashed that watch at me kid. Took me a couple of minutes to make connection, I'll give you that. But don't you think I keep tabs on what goes around here? Especially after an attempted attack a little while back – I’m guessing that was you?"

And as the world spins nauseatingly around him one last time, Jason gives up and blacks out.

\---

Looking back down the line, it's definitely not on his list of smartest moments. His plans aren't the most surreptitious, favoring brute force over strategic artifice, sheer force of will over measured patience, physical skill over mind games, but it works for him – usually. Failure was rare and Fletcher was the exception – a result of one count miscalculation, two counts overconfidence. After all, he'd been well trained – Talia had made sure of that.

He remembers this.

Three months after Paris, she sends him to Japan to learn under Suzuki Akari. The lull of the sea and serenity of the village do nothing to temper Jason's fury, and as he watches the pound and crash of the waves, he imagines himself as a grain of sand caught in the churn of the current. Tossed around and grinded down until he was nothing but a speck of rage squeezed into a semblance of a body. His thoughts are scattered so thin, so chaotic, they overflow and spill out whenever he tries rein in the ever-persistent anger to corral them into something resembling order.

Jason's long learned not to ask where Talia finds her associates. Despite Suzuki's deceptively frail frame and wrinkly smile, her hands are steady and swift to kill a man. And Jason can respect that. It's the same respect that leads him to follow Suzuki when she asks him to climb up the mountainside to visit the village shrine.

The path is long overgrown with vibrant green foliage and the stone path is worn down to nubs in the dirt. Jason loiters outside, kicking dirt and grass, as Suzuki tends to the shrine.

"What does it do?" he asks, hands stuffed in his pocket, back hunched once she's finished.

Her hand is quick like a snake when she smacks him with her fan. "Don't slouch, you look like a slob," she admonishes and begins to start back down the mountain path. Jason scowls, but she hums, old eyes amused as she peers down the mountain to the brilliant sea below. "Some people pray for happiness, some for peace. The young ones pray for fortune and focus. But me? My husband was killed by Yakuza twenty years ago and I don't want any of that. All I ask is for my anger to remain sharp like a knife so that I will be ready when they return."

She looks up at him, drooping eyes shadowed by the brim of her straw hat. And Jason thinks he finally understands.

In a small seaside town in Japan, Jason returns to the shore and thinks of her smile, keen and sharp, like vengeance honed to a blade. He gives up trying to stitch himself back together, lets loose all the outrage, all the injustice, and channels the hard edge of anger instead.

\---

When he wakes up, his head is pounding like a bitch and he squeezes his eyes tighter as if to ward off the incoming headache. Wiggling his fingers, he feels a tingling sensation as he works the blood back into his numb hands. Most definitely not dead then. His mask is gone, however, and he shivers feeling infinitely more exposed. Jason is suddenly grateful for the leather jacket wrapped around his shoulders even though the gun tucked at his side is long gone.

Taking a slow breath, he finally coaxes his eyes open and looks up into a bleary lightbulb swaying above him. Great. Tied up and held captive by a man who couldn't even bother furnishing his jail cells. There was nothing worse than this. The feeling of powerlessness, four walls closing on him with like coffin walls around him. Too small, too close, a feeling like fear twists itself in his gut before knotting into pure, unadulterated anger.

He kicks at the ground in frustration. He'd been so _fucking close_. He'd been prepared, but so had Fletcher, and in the end it was Jason tied up and awaiting execution in a bare, cold cell. The taste of failure is sour in his mouth. He recounts all the ways that night at the club could have gone right. Maybe if Jason had shot Fletcher as soon as he walked in the club. Maybe if Jason hadn't taken the watch from that boy at the bar. Maybe if Jason had his head screwed right from the beginning.

Sucking in a breath, Jason twists around until he's sitting upright, propped against the cold cement wall, and begins to work on freeing himself from the rope binding his arms behind him.

Honestly, he's surprised Fletcher hasn't already killed him. It's what Jason would have done his position – eliminate any liabilities before they had the chance to react. And though he hated to admit it, Fletcher had gotten him good. The thought that Fletcher was onto him didn't even cross his mind until whatever drug was slipped into the drink started kicking him.

There's the sound of shuffling outside his door and Jason stills. The door opens just as he goes limp, closing his eyes.

He hears two loud voices conversing above him before he's yanked roughly upwards and dragged along the floor. Chancing a slight peek through his eyelids, Jason makes out the blurry shape of cages lining the wall as he's pulled down a hallway and into a cavernous room. The two men above him are laughing and cracking jokes, and when they sit him on a chair, they tie the rope around in him swift, easy movements.

Jason lets his head flop along with every jerk of the rope, waiting for his chance to act. If he could free himself from the ropes, he'd be able to take them down easily. He'd have to go for the man nearest to him first. Disarm him and then go for the other one. From the way they easily lifted him, they were strong, but so was Jason. And he'd been training his whole life to fight against stacked odds. If he was quick enough, the element of surprise might just give him the edge he needed to make it out alive.

Before he has the chance to make his move, however, another set of footsteps approach and the idle chatter of the two guards ceases. Jason can hear them shifting uneasily as they stand to attention.

"Did you get him?"

Jason bites back a groan. Of course it was Fletcher.

One of the guys clears his throat nervously. "Uh, yes sir. He was still unconscious when we entered the room."

"I knew from the moment I saw him he’d be a lightweight," Fletcher laughs. "Couldn't even make it through a glass of cognac without going down. It was such a shame too – my favorite brand."

Jason would _love_ the opportunity to put his fist in Fletcher's piggy face right now. He wouldn't be laughing his stupid, congested laugh when Jason got to him. (If he got to him, a disgustingly rational voice in his head supplies.)

"Uh to be honest, I'm not sure why you didn't just kill him, boss," one of the goons supplies. And yeah okay, Jason would like to know that too.

"Don't be stupid. The police _and Nightwing_ have been onto us for months. We just need a couple more weeks and we'll be done – this guy will give us the leverage we need. Think about it, there's no way it's a coincidence. He came to the club the same day Nightwing busted one of our operations in Melville Park. So we bait him out, point a gun to this guy's head and _pew._ Two birds one stone. _"_

 _The irony_. If that was what Fletcher was hinging his plan on, he was going to be sorely disappointed. As much as Grayson cared about saving lives, Jason's pretty sure nothing in his moral code prevented him from putting Jason at the bottom of his priority list – not that Jason really needed his help anyways. He had survived worse situations. Besides, he swore off putting faith in others long ago.

He thinks of all the people that'd failed him. His father, his mother, Batman – the list was too long to count. Once, he had believed in the tales of flying capes and indomitable men. Of heroes who could lift skyscrapers and carry the moon. And he had thought, for one fleeting, blasphemous moment, that he too could be one of them.

The thing is, after his mother – his first mother – died, he'd spent so much time on the streets angry and cynical. He'd been so sure, so righteous in his belief that nothing could _ever_ go right that he'd flung himself at the world, daring it to prove him wrong. Then Batman came along, and as he donned the mask and cape, leaving the forsaken streets for the skyline, he finally thought that there just might be something better out there – hovering right beyond his reach in the horizon – that he'd be able to take one day. And that's what hurts the most. The false hope, the ephemeral optimism torn out of his grasp just as he dared to believe. The inevitable crash.

Jason’d made himself self-sufficient after.

"You didn't tell us _Nightwing_ was coming after us." There's an underlying thread of fear in goon number two's voice.

"Nightwing will be nothing to us after tonight," Fletcher dismisses. "Neither will the cops. Is Haines ready?" _Haines?_ That was a new one. Filtering through all the profiles he had looked at, Jason doesn't recall any file with that name on it.

"Oh yeah, he said he'll come up to you later. What if Nightwing goes to the bridge though?"

"Then he'll be taken out with the rest of the cops. And we can just dispose of this one after." There's a slap and a grunt, and when Jason peers out from under his lashes, Fletcher has clapped one of the men on the back, grinning broadly in anticipation for his projected success. He's wearing the same triumphant grin that had loomed over Jason right before everything went dark. "Let me tell you this. If everything goes as plan tonight, I'll give you all a raise."

The guy on Jason's right grumbles. "Yeah. If we survive Nightwing."

"Haines says he can deal with him and the cops," Fletcher says. "Now I don't know much about whatever voodoo magic he's been up to, but look at Nevada. Look at Illinois. Hell, look at Kansas. I don't know what he's doing, but whatever it is, it's working."

Jason stifles the instinctual reaction to sit up and find out what the hell was going on. He recalls their conversation earlier in the club. Nevada, Illinois, Kentucky. _They're making their way to the East coast_. Of all the things Fletcher could be involved with, of course he'd be involved in _aliens_ – although he wouldn't be the first human to try to establish power with the help of extraterrestrial beings. A chill runs down Jason's spine. A group of cops versus a bunch of aliens called down by a deranged man. The matchup is clear. And Haines – Jason doesn't know who the fuck he is, but he would bet his life that he was working with Fletcher to summon the aliens.

"And the Justice League?" One of the guards asks, disbelieving. Jason doesn't blame him. He thinks of facing down the Man of Steel and the Princess of the Amazons and yeah – even at his most reckless, he would rather turn tail and run. Nothing cowardly about self-preservation.

"Nah they're still in Kentucky, dealing with the rest of Haines's friends. They won't find out until it's too late. By the time they're back, it'll be too late," Fletcher sounds almost positively gleeful and a roll of disgust settles in Jason's stomach.

"And what happens after, huh?" The words are out of his mouth before he can even stop them. Sure Jason and the Justice League have their disagreements, but it was nothing personal – not like with the Bat. Begrudgingly, Jason can admit that when it came down to it, they ultimately wanted the same thing. Their differences came into play once you started getting into the means of doing so. When it comes to choosing between Fletcher and Superman, there is no question about it.

Jason opens his eyes and grins vicious, like a shark smelling blood, at the stricken expression on the guards' faces. "You might be able to throw off the Justice League for a couple of hours, but how long would you have to live after that? How long would it take for them to hunt you down one by one?"

One of the guys opens his mouth, speechless, while the other guy's expression hardens. "Big words for someone tied to a chair."

Jason does his best to shrug while tied up. "Hey, don't look at me. It's your life."

The guard opens his mouth to retort, but a nervous-looking man pokes his head through the door, and he decides against it, falling back with a frown. Jason raises an eyebrow.

“Haines – “ Fletcher calls, surprised.

Haines doesn't look like much. If Jason stood next to him, he probably wouldn't even come up to Jason's _shoulder_. He's the kind of man Jason sees on the streets shrinking back into the filth of Bludhaven, head down, hood up. Like if he tried hard enough, squinted hard enough, everything would blur and he wouldn't have to acknowledge the cold, brutal truth around him.

"I thought I told you to wait until I got you," Fletcher scowls, head whipping to look at Jason before glaring at the other man.

Haines falters under the ferocity of Fletcher's expression and runs a pale hand through his hair. "I just wanted to uh let you know everything is ready." His eyes flicker nervously to Jason, who takes the opportunity to leer at him, watching him swallow hard.

"Yeah, yeah, you sure everything is under control?" Fletcher asks with a wave of his hand. He looks faintly annoyed.

Haines nods, lips thinning. "They'll be tied to this." He pulls out a strange looking box from his pocket.

Fletcher hisses and bats the Haines's hand down, turning as if to block Jason's view. "Are you kidding me? Put that away before anyone sees it," he whispers furiously. "Just wait where I told you too."

"But the bridge -"

"Just do as I say, and everything will be fine," Fletcher snaps. He glances warily at Jason before grimacing at Haines. "We've been over this a million times already. You take care of the rest of the police force and I'll take care of Nightwing, okay?"

"I guess -"

Fletcher rolls his eyes and waves his hand. "Just go." He looks at the guards on either side of Jason. "Take him with you."

Jason watches Haines jerk in a semblance of a nod before turning tail to flee the room, followed by the guards in an awkward shuffle. It didn't take much to see who was running the show. "So Nightwing huh?" he tests out, weighing the word on his tongue carefully. It feels heavy and awkward, but if he plays his cards right, he'll be able to get out of here with all his limbs intact.

"Yeah, we left him a nice note at the club." Fletcher crosses his arms and leans against the wall – casual, but Jason can see the danger lurking behind the languid lines of his body. "He should be coming for you some time soon. Hope you'll enjoy the stay while you can," he sneers.

"And what makes you think Nightwing will be coming for me," Jason asks. "How do you know he isn't just going to send the cops to come fetch me. For all you know, we don't even know each other."

Fletcher laughs. A hoarse, wet noise that makes Jason cringe. "I'm not stupid. Nightwing and the police have been after me for months. Especially with the whole fiasco with Colonel at the warehouse. Do you expect me to believe that _you_ who came into town around the same time the warehouse blew up isn't involved? That even though you went around killing all my associates at the same time the police were investigating me, you still have no connection to them whatsoever? I wasn't born yesterday. A child could see the clues."

He leans in close with a grin. "And guess what, the police have coincidently been called out to the bridge to deal with a gang fight, so Nightwing's not going to have much help in that regard. My friend will make sure of that."

"That's alright, it's not like I need his help. I'll let you in on a little secret. Him and I – we aren't exactly friends," Jason matches his stare and presses forwards as much as he can against the weight of his bonds. "You can posture all you want, but I don’t think you'll be seeing him tonight."

"We'll see about that," Fletcher says. "Even if he doesn't come, I got rid of one problem at least." He looks down at Jason with a smirk. "And if Nightwing goes to the bridge with the rest of Bludhaven police, even better."

A chill runs down his spine. Lazarus pit-cold. And when he closes his eyes, he can see the flickering torchlight behind his eyelids. "See that's the problem with guys like you," Jason tosses out. "You're all bluster and no action. Yeah you keep talking about the bridge and your friend Haines, but you haven't actually proved what you're doing on the bridge."

"And then what? I talk about my plans and you miraculously break free to ruin them? No thanks. I've been around to know all of your little tricks."

"Your call," Jason shrugs. "Honestly, I doubt you have a plan at all. All of your associates going down around you like flies and you haven't been able to do anything to stop them. You're getting kind of sloppy, old man. Is this your last ditch effort? To blow up the bridge or something to bring down everyone with you." He laughs at Fletcher, all bravado and bluster – nothing to lose. "The noose is tightening around your neck. I saw the files, the police department is coming after you _hard_."

Fletcher's fist hits the table in front of Jason with a thud and Jason flinches. "Don’t talk to me about things you don't understand," he grits out with visible suppressed anger.

"If I had a penny for every time someone said that to me," Jason drawls, trying not to think of the fiery beings he saw on the news ripping up Nevada. If Fletcher would just let something slip, reveal _anything_ even just a hint about what he was going to be doing. "The cold hard truth is this. You're gonna be locked up for good – unless someone puts a bullet between your eyes before that." He thinks of the boys walking down Fifth Avenue with their egos on their sleeves, and winks. "Ask me real nice and I can do it for you."

"I think you're forgetting who's the one in charge right now," Fletcher growls. There's a click of a gun and Jason freezes, sucking in his breath. Had he gone too far in pushing Fletcher?

But Fletcher stills and just turns over the gun in his hand slowly, almost pensively. "Well, you're dead anyways," he muses, "so I guess I can tell you this." His eyes flicker up and when Jason stares into them, he can see a burn of madness reflected in them. "You got twenty guards surrounding you so don't try anything funny."

"Like I could," Jason replies dryly. He wiggles his arms in the ropes as if to demonstrate.

"I've been operating in Bludhaven for twenty years now," Fletcher says with a frown. " In those twenty years, I've never run into trouble until Nightwing came in. And then it wasn't just him. All of a sudden, the police started taking an interest in what I was doing too. Who I was talking to. Where I was spending my money. You'd think a man would be entitled to some privacy, wouldn't he?"

"Well I dunno about you," Jason interrupts. "But I think when a man decides to order the murders of over one hundred people and embezzle millions of funds from the city, it's fair for the police to start digging into what he was doing."

Fletcher shoots him a dirty glare, but ignores him. "I had to be more careful all of a sudden. Then I find out some tramp is running around killing my men. Most people living in Bludhaven are fine with almost anything that goes on underneath their noses. As long as it's – like I've said – _underneath their noses_. Bring it to attention and all of a sudden they'll start rallying for change and reform when just days ago they were perfectly fine with the status quo."

"And the logical solution is just to kill everyone and start all over?"

Fletcher flexes his hand, caught in thought. "Sometimes to fix things, you have to destroy them." And okay, that hits home a little closer than Jason would ever admit. They were different though, Fletcher and him. Jason on his one-man crusade to rid society of people exactly like Fletcher, and Fletcher – he didn't do anything but act on his greed and bloodlust.

"So you're what? Sic'ing your alien buddies on the cops at the bridge tonight? Sounds like something out of a cheesy B-rated horror film," Jason snorts.

"Not aliens," Fletcher corrects with a grim smile. "Ghosts." He raises his gun and points it directly at Jason. "I thought it would be pretty fitting to have the living brought down by the dead."

"Whoa there, I thought we were waiting for my buddy Nightwing." Jason leans back as far away as he can from the cold press of steel against his head.

"I did say a little too much there," Fletcher says spreading his hands. His lips stretch in a farce of an apologetic smile. "And he'll come for you, dead or alive. Schrodinger's cat, after all. Until Nightwing is here, you're both simultaneously dead and alive – but he can't take the chance can he?"

Jason tries not to let the crawl of panic rise up his throat. His fingers had been working on the ties around him as Fletcher spoke and he was so close to unravelling them completely. "I thought we were having a great conversation, to be honest."

"Quite the opposite, actually. I prefer listeners that are a bit less snarky and a lot more sympathetic." His finger moves towards the trigger.

"Wait, don't you want to know about me and Nightwing's illicit love affair?" Jason all but shouts. In hindsight, if Jason had to pick any moment in his life to redo, it would be this – but in the moment it works.

As Fletcher stops in his tracks, gaping mouth like a goldfish against his pudgy face, Jason wrenches open the rope bound around him with a sudden burst of adrenaline. In a split second, he's launching himself out of his chair and smashing his fist in Fletcher's face.

Fletcher goes down with a crash and Jason wrestles the gun out of his hand. A rush of pleasure fills his veins as he watches Fletcher struggle underneath him. Karma was a bitch, huh?

“Just kidding," Jason leans in and whispers as Fletcher's face goes purple under Jason's choke hold. "I actually hate that guy."

Gaping soundlessly, Fletcher's lips twitch fruitlessly as he scrabbles at Jason's jacket. Generously, Jason loosens his hold, just slightly, to hear Fletcher's last words.

"Sniper," Fletcher chokes out.

Jason follows his gaze to the red pinprick centered at his heart and his gut drops. Well _fuck_.

He spins around and takes a quick scan of the room, searching into the darkness looming above him and seeing shadowy figures perched up on the rafters above. The two guards from before burst through the door panting with their guns drawn, followed by at least five more behind them. Dropping Fletcher, he puts his hands up tentatively, backing up as Fletcher retches on the ground.

"I told you," Fletcher wheezes from the ground. There's a smug grin on his face even though he is flushed red with exertion. Jason's fists clench and he scowls.

One of the guards moves forwards with a gun, but Fletcher motions him back as he pulls himself up from the ground. "No, I want to kill him myself." He points the gun at Jason with unsteady hands. "I told you, no funny tricks, yet here we are."

Finally caught, back to a wall. Jason stares at him sullenly.

"Well -" Fletcher starts.

The first body falls to the ground with a thump. The second follows shortly after. And as Fletcher stares up towards the ceiling, panicked, a third one falls. Glancing down, Jason realizes the light centered on his chest was gone and he leaps at the opportunity, spinning into a kick to knock the gun out of Fletcher's hand.

"Heard you were waiting for me." The voice rings out above them and Jason closes his eyes briefly. It's familiar and not entirely welcome, but at this point, he'll take it. "Although this isn't exactly the welcome I envisioned."

Jason punches Fletcher in the face before he can answer. And though he doesn't have the chance to finish him off before a guard is rushing at him, it feels good. He leaps into the fray, brain switching into autopilot, although he remains hyperaware of the motion of black and blue in the corner of his eye. A bitter taste wells in his mouth, but he'll deal with that later.

In the chaos, he takes a beating, but he gives just as good as he get. With every blow that rains down on him, Jason lashes back with the endless well of fury in reserve within him. A punch catches him in the mouth and when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the coppery tang of blood stings his tongue.

Set before him, the guards crumble until there's only one bent over on the ground in front of him. Jason reaches down to pick up Fletcher's loaded gun, but before he can act, a whizz of blue races in fronts of him and collides with the man's head. He falls too and Jason glares at the offender.

"I had him," he says, mouth heavy with blood and salt. His limbs too, are heavy with exhaustion and Jason is definitely not in the mood to deal with this sort of shit right now.

"No, you were going to kill him," Nightwing says wryly.

Jason rolls his eyes. "How long have you been here?" he demands. He takes a quick glance around the room, but Fletcher is no where to be seen.

Nightwing's lips press together in a thin line. "Long enough. _Lover_."

Jason feels his face burn and he crosses his arms together. "Guess you didn't hear what I said after then."

"I did hear." Jason can't tell if he's imagining things or not, but there's a funny inflection in Nightwing's voice – and if Jason didn't know any better, he would say it almost sounded like _hurt_. He scowls, too tired to try to pick apart whatever Nightwing's thinking. The ache in his leg is flaring back up and he limps towards the door, all too aware of Grayson's gaze on him.

"I didn't need your help you know," he bites out.

He doesn't need to look back to know that Grayson's jaw is tightening with frustration. "Right, so you were just going to stand there and let him shoot you – "

"I had everything under control," Jason retorts stubbornly, temper flaring up. He grabs Fletcher's gun and wipes off the blood, before turning towards the hallway where Haines had left. Fletcher and Haines were still out there somewhere with that damn contraption of his. He thinks of the horrifying destruction raining down across the country under the force of whatever had been summoned – _ghosts_ Fletcher had said. Like it wasn't enough that Jason had faced death once.

" _Under control?_ " Grayson asks incredulously. "You would have been dead on the ground if I didn't come when I did."

"And wouldn't it have made it easier for you -"

"You know what would have been easier for me? If you never started poking your nose in Bludhaven in the first place."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I mess up your perfect city?" Jason says sarcastically. "Well too bad, because it was already a mess when I got here. You’ve got a madman running around setting murderous ghosts on people. I'm just cleaning up when you couldn't."

"Is this what you call cleaning up?" And oh, he's getting mad. Dick Grayson might try to bottle up all his emotions under that mask of his, but Jason knows him. Jason had studied him after all – back when Jason still wore pixie shorts and a cape just like his predecessor. To other people, it's like Nightwing closes off when infuriated, blank as a sheet of paper, but Jason can see the taught lines in his shoulder, the tight curve of his mouth, as he reigns in his ire.

"We are _not_ having this conversation again right now." Jason can taste the heat of blood in his mouth again. "I don't need you to spew the whole morals speech. I've heard it enough last time to last me a lifetime. How's the shoulder by the way?"

Grayson hisses, "You're -"

"A fuckup," Jason laughs. "Yea, I already know."

Grayson's face pales under the mask. "You know that's not what I was going to say."

"But you were thinking it. Save it, Boy Wonder." Jason turns around and stalks out the door to kick Haines's scrawny ass.

Grayson has the decency to call out a "Wait, where are you going?" but Jason ignores him as he makes his way down the hallway. Most of the rooms are vacant, but on the fourth door he tries, he finds a narrow hallway with a deep thrumming vibrating within the walls. The sound of machinery, Jason guesses. From the look of things, they're probably in an old factory just outside the city.

After another sharp turn down the hall, he flings open a door to find Haines and Fletcher emptying a safe into a briefcase.

They look up, panicked, when the door slams into the wall, and Jason groans. "Seriously?" he asks. "You had the chance to run and you're trying to stuff your faces with cash instead?"

Haines and Fletcher glance at each other, and something flickers between them too catch to catch. Before Jason can react, Haines throws himself at something behind the safe and Fletcher grabs the briefcase with his pudgy fingers, making for the back door on the other side of the room. He moves surprisingly fast for a man that looks like an overstuffed teddy bear, but Jason moves faster, blocking the door, hand angling to shoot.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Grayson flinging himself into the room, eyes widening as he takes in the situation. On the bright side, it only takes a split second before Grayson decides the bigger threat is Haines, who'd pulled out the damn contraption again. On the not so bright side, a dozen armed guards, hot on his heels, enter the room. How the hell did Fletcher stationed so many guards in the factory without arousing any notice?

A bullet grazes Jason's arm and he drops the gun, clutching his hand as a burning pain shoots through it. Fletcher takes advantage of the moment to bring the briefcase down on Jason's head. A burst of stars clouds his vision and he staggers.

"Hurry," Fletcher shouts. His voice sounds far away, like Jason's submerged underwater. Jason instinctively takes a soundless gasp, like he's suffocating. He grabs the gun again, but something in him freezes.

Fletcher takes the opportunity to push past him and slip through the door.

" _Hey_ -" Grayson yells at him. "What are you doing?"

There's another shout and a blurry Grayson turns and lunges at Haines, bringing an escrima stick down on the silver device with a devastating _crack._

And then everything explodes.

\---

It's like the first time he died. The blinding light, so white, so hot it sears his face. The roar of the blast, shaking the ground like hell has opened up beneath them, dragging them down _finally_. And Jason half expects to open his eyes to the varnished wood of a coffin, breathless and hyperventilating.

He opens his eyes instead to Grayson pulling himself over Jason's prone body, arms shaking, mask half ripped off his face. The room around them is utterly flattened, Fletcher and Haines gone, guards scattered and terrified. If Jason focuses real hard, he can almost make out the smog of the night sky above them, but that's not what Grayson is looking at.

An argentine figure looms above them, like light spun into something so tangible Jason can almost reach out and touch it – a ghost story come to life. It's nothing like what Jason imagined it to be, nothing like he had saw on TV. More like a fairytale than anything. But the air around it crackles, temperature dropping so cold, Jason can see his breath when he exhales.

He thinks he'd heard a story about this once. Back when he wasn't anything but a tumble of fists and scraps, loud and brash and unforgiving, forging life for himself on the streets. Tía Rosa lived down the road from him, but on Thursdays she'd take pity on him and make him her secret corn recipe, sweet and cold, in the heat of summer. She'd tell him stories as he eats, husky voice weaving images of maidens with hair down to their heels and angels with gossamer wings. And for a couple of hours, curled up on her couch, Jason could forget the filth and violence around him.

He imagines this must be what she was describing. Angels descending from heaven to wield their wrath. Devastatingly beautiful.

It reaches out to the terrified guard standing between them, and a tendril of light comes brushes his cheek. There's a flare of light, both bright and terrible, before he disappears with a scream. The other remaining guards quickly succumb to the same fate, and Jason fights back the urge to throw up as the silvery figure advances towards them.

A pressure digs into his abdomen and Grayson, _fucking Grayson_ , props himself over Jason, staring at the light bloodied, but unbowed. He cuts a defiant silhouette in front of the light as the temperature continues to drop. Jason can feel his lips turning blue, fingers becoming numb, as his eyelids begin to droop.

What a pair they are, he thinks, as his hand makes one last futile twitch towards his gun. Then the light flickers towards him, close enough to touch, reawakening an ache in his chest, and he slides into blackness.

\---

At least this time he wakes up in a bed. Everything hurts, but he wiggles his hand tentatively, brushing over the blue comforter thrown over him haphazardly. It's not his and Jason cranes his neck upwards, ignoring the protest of pain that shoots through the rest of his body.

A reddish-orange light spills between the cracks of the blinds, illuminating the room with a warm amber glow. In the dying daylight, Jason can make out the rest of the room, clothes strewn everywhere, an empty box of takeaway loitering on the nightstand, paper stacked on the desk at least a foot high. There are boxes stacked in the corner, like the owner had never bothered to unpack the rest of his stuff, and a Bludhaven PD uniform thrown over the chair.

Jason freezes, cocking his ear to listen for any sounds around him. It's completely silent.

He shoots up, a prickle of tension going down his neck. The room itself is unassuming. Whoever's apartment this is, if the owner wanted Jason dead, he would have killed Jason while he was sleeping. But here's the thing. Judging from the Bludhaven skyline that peeks out between the cracks of the blinds, Jason's somewhere in Bludhaven Midtown. And usually at this time, the nightlife is just beginning to wake. People rushing back to get home after work. Frivolous partiers heading out for the night – weekend or weekday be damned. Cars lining the road as the sun begins to set. But it's _quiet_ except for the sound of sirens droning in the distance.

With a groan, Jason swings his legs over the edge of the bed and teeters up unsteadily, making his way to the window. He pulls the blinds open and jerks back as he's greeted with the sight of blood red skies. There's smoke rising in the distance, coloring the sun in shades of crimson, and it stands in sharp contrast with the black silhouettes of skyscrapers jutting from the ground. It's Bludhaven, or what's left of it, Jason realizes to his horror. He'd never been a fan of the city, but it still the scene of destruction invokes an ugly feeling in his chest.

Half of the city had been hit by the blast, Jason guesses, and he can see the charred edge encircling the blast radius. The other half of the city is silent, as if standing on the brink of an apocalypse – although that wouldn't be too far from what actually happened. Jason shoves open the window and leans out, looking down the dizzying sight of the ground ten stories below. The streets are empty, only motion is that of swirling paper and plastic, carried by the warm seaside breeze that runs through his hair like a hot, damp kiss.

Caught in the eerie scene of desolation, the sound of the door opening outside catches Jason by surprise and he jerks back inside, flailing for the nearest weapon he can find. With a bated breath, Jason grabs the chair, pressing himself to the wall as he silently makes his way to the bedroom door.

The handle of the door turns and Jason raises the chair over his head, ready to bring it down on whatever unsuspecting interloper.

"What the -" A muffled yell sounds out as the person on the other side of the door drops down to avoid the chair Jason brings down with vicious relish.

"Grayson?" Jason picks up the chair again cautiously, but he can't stop the inescapable rush of relief. "The fuck you doing sneaking around like that?"

"Are you kidding me?" Grayson rubs his head with a slight groan. He's dressed in a rumpled shirt and khakis, nursing a bandage that peeks out under the collar of his shirt. "It's _my_ apartment." He looks up chagrined. And wow he kind of looks like shit right now. Shadows under his eyes, cheeks gaunt – like he hadn't slept in days. "Although it's about time you woke up."

Jason tosses the chair away with a scoff. "How long have I been out?"

"I dunno, two? Three days? Everything kinda seems to blur these days. You're pretty heavy you know? I had to haul your ass all the way back here after you fainted." Grayson rubs his eyes wearily and clambers to his feet. He glances at the police uniform now slung on the floor and flicker of emotion crosses his face, too fast to catch. "We need to talk. I don't know how you got involved with Fletcher, but I need to hear everything you know."

"What?"

Grayson looks at Jason, expression hardening, mouth open to say something, but abruptly decides against it with a shake of his head. "I have some food in the kitchen. We can talk about it there." He doesn't even wait around to hear Jason's reply before he turns around and trudges into the kitchen, slight limp in his step.

Jason kicks the chair for good measure when he follows.

\---

He didn't always hate Dick Grayson. Even now, he doesn't quite know if hate is the word to describe it, but there's nothing else close enough to label the knee-jerk reaction Grayson pulls from him. It's not something he can put into words easily. If Jason had to try to describe it though, it'd be something like this.

There's a boy in his class who wears shirts two sizes too big and shoes with holes big enough to poke a toe through. Jason's small for his age, always hungry, always tired after dragging his ma to the bed when she inevitably ends up passed out on the doorstep after going out – but this boy is even smaller. It doesn't stop him from smiling though, gap-toothed and crooked, even when the bigger boys lock him in the storage closet for four hours straight.

Sometimes they lock Jason in with him. Which is how they become friends.

It's easier when there's someone else with you in the dark. A warm hand to hold on to, another heartbeat to hear, another presence to remind Jason that he's alive and that this, too, will pass. And as they wait for the teachers to figure out that they're missing two from the classroom, small and forgettable as they are, he tells Jason about how he walks three miles to go to school when his parents are working. About how he steals movie posters and makes up his own stories since he's too poor to see them. About how he goes to sleep hungry sometimes because no matter how much his ma and pa work their fingers to the bone, there's not enough on the table for five growing children.

In turn, Jason tells him about how Willis goes missing four or five days a week, only to come back drunk and broke, begging for more money, about how his ma is too sick to leave the house anymore, tired and broken and apathetic, about how Jason drags them both to bed when they're too far gone to even see their son in front of them.

And for a short-lived year, Jason thinks he's finally found someone like him.

Then the school year starts again, and Jason watches him walk in with a new shirt and new glow to his face. His father got a new job, he says, and he sits next to one of the pretty girls instead of Jason. Sure he's still nice, laughs at Jason's jokes and all that, but it's not the same. Jason watches him integrate seamlessly with the rest of the class and feels a weight at the bottom of his stomach.

It's like banging on the closet door again. All alone in the dark, crushed under the pressure of a silence that he doesn't know how to deal with. It's made worse by the fact that he still smiles at Jason the same, heart on his sleeve, like he still thinks the world of Jason even when there's times that Jason wants nothing more than to kick that grin off his face. The next time he tries to talk to Jason, Jason calls him a coward and a sellout.

So sure, he doesn't know what to call all that mixed jealousy, affection, hatred, and vulnerability that stabs at him like a broken rib. He just knows how to suffocate in it.

Two years later, Jason hears they find him dead in the river when his father gets into a drug deal gone wrong. And Jason doesn't know to describe that feeling either. But he swears to never feel it again.

Then he meets Dick.

\---

"So the ghost – or whatever it is – just _disappeared_?" Jason says incredulously, digging into what looks like meatloaf with a savage stab of his fork. Grayson – no Dick – isn't a very good cook, but then again, Jason's not a very good guest either. "You're telling me they just killed like ten men then decided _nah maybe another day_ and left?"

Dick stiffens. He mashes his food around his plate, but his eyes don't leave Jason, pinning him down with a caution only borne from experience. It's clear Dick doesn't trust him even though he'd brought Jason back to his apartment. Although Jason can't blame him. He'd do the same if their roles had been reversed. They might have a common enemy now, but it didn't make them anywhere close to friends.

"We don't even know what it wanted. If it's even capable of sentient thought – especially since we broke the guy's controls. I just remember the _thing_ coming closer. And it's like it _looked at you_. Thought you were gone for sure before it just blinked out of existence." Dick grimaces and he sucks in a slow breath. When he speaks again his voice is quieter. "Then I took a look around us. I have no idea why it left."

Jason thinks he knows why. He doesn't remember what happens after, but he still remembers the icy squeeze in his chest, tendril of light floating so close, so cold to his face. He's a dead man walking and he wonders if on some primitive level, the _being_ had seen that and left him because of that. In the same way a lion wouldn't attack another lion. A mosquito wouldn't sting another mosquito. A ghost wouldn't attack – what? Another ghost? Is that what Jason was?

He rubs his face wearily. "And the police? What happened to them?"

"Gone," Dick says. "They took a distress call out by the bridge that turned out to be fake. By the time they figured out what was happening, it was too late. The same blast that took out half the city levelled the bridge. Survivors say they saw something similar to what we saw out by the factory." His face is blank, but his knuckles are white, clutching at the fork. He glances at the window before flickering back to Jason, eyes unreadable. "Did you know?"

"Know what?" Jason retorts, hackles rising. "That Fletcher was a madman? That you should have gotten rid of him long ago?" And it’s like no matter how hard Jason tries to sit down and have civil conversation, they're back to this. Maybe it's because he's tired and hurt and angry. Maybe it's the threat of a ghost invasion that might destroy the world. Maybe Jason's not completely over the Bat thing. But it's like he can't stop the prickle of irritation that wounds itself into Jason's thoughts whenever he talks to Dick.

Dick's eyes flash – the first instance of losing his cool Jason's seen all evening. His hand spasms around the fork he's gripping to tightly, but his voice is too steady when he speaks again. "Did you know Fletcher was going after them? The police?"

"What the fuck? I didn't know anything until I was in that damn factory. You try gathering information when you're drugged and tied up," Jason retaliates. There's a crack as he stabs the fork too forcefully into the plate and it breaks. He ignores the sting of pain as a shard of porcelain cuts his palm. "I just knew he was going to be at the club and I figured it was my best chance to take him down. Then next thing I know, I'm twenty miles outside the city tied to a chair, listening tosa lunatic ramble on about ghosts."

"And the other guy? Did you know him? The one controlling the ghosts," Dick presses.

"Never met him until that night."

"Jesus," Dick sinks down in his chair. All fight gone. "At least several hundred dead. Not to mention all those injured." He runs a scarred hand through his hair. "Half the police department wiped out. Just like that." He looks at Jason. "What the hell happened?"

"What?" Jason glares at him.

"You _froze_. I saw you." And Jason almost drops his fork in disbelief because that's definitely accusation laced in Dick's voice.

Jason can't help the resentful laugh that bursts out. "Are you serious? You're blaming _me_ for what happened? Just get off your fucking high horse for once in your life. All those people are dead because you couldn't put one man away." The room feels too warm all of a sudden. Something dark and spiteful bubbles up within him.

Dick's face goes ashen, eyes dark, shadows under his eyes darker. "We were so close to pinning all his crimes on him," he says venomously. "Another couple of day and we would have gotten him. At least we would have if Fletcher didn't panic because some guy was running around tipping him off by killing his men."

It seems that in the time Jason's been away, he wasn't the only one that had changed. He didn't see Dick that much back then. By the time Jason was Robin, Dick had already set out on his own, stretching out his own wings away from the shadow of the Bat. But he remembers the few times Dick would stop by – easy grin and an air of sanguinity that settled like a cape around his shoulders. This Dick has none of that levity, none of that mercurial grace. Not so perfect anymore. The thought sends a twisted feeling of vindication through him.

"Oh please," Jason scoffs. "Sure you would have caught him, and then he would have walked free within the hour. And what about all the people working under him huh? Bludhaven's so full of shit I'm surprised it doesn't stink up the whole tristate area. Oh wait. It does."

Dick opens his mouth to retort, but Jason cuts him off. "You know, I'm not even surprised anymore. All you guys do is run around proclaiming to be heroes, spouting your moral bullshit. Then when the actual consequences arrive, you run and put the burden on everyone around you. You can talk all you want about how you're saving lives in Bludhaven. But the fact is, all these people died anyways because of your stupid refusal to act. Look at how many people Fletcher has _killed_. Don’t you think you'd be saving so many more lives if you just had the guts one day to put a bullet in his head?"

"You know why we don't kill," Dick hisses. And Jason realizes they're not just talking about themselves anymore. Even when Jason had long sworn off the mantle of Robin, even when Jason is miles away from Gotham and thousands of miles away from the Justice League, they still circle back to Batman, he thinks bitterly. Back to where they both started.

"What? So you don't have to feel bad about yourself after?" Jason pushes the chair back and stands up abruptly – ignoring the protest in his leg. His throat feels like it's been ripped apart by sandpaper "Well let me tell you. The burden of conscience, the price you pay to sleep better at night, falls on _us_. "

"You think I don't know that?" Dick bursts out. His eyes burn with something almost like hatred _. Good_. Let him experience what Jason's felt ever since he crawled his way out of his grave for once. "You think it's easy for me to sleep at night when I know what people like Fletcher are doing? When one more kid doesn't come home and I know we're going to find their body the next morning – if we even find it at all?"

"Then fucking _do something_ about it," Jason shouts. "Stop being a fucking coward. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Dick just shakes his head. "I can't."

"Bullshit," Jason says. And he looks down at Dick, chest heaving. "Don't you guys ever learn? Wasn't my death enough?" His voice cracks embarrassingly as Dick freezes, guilt crossing his expression. But Jason's too caught up in a whirlwind of emotions to care. He backs up and grasps for the door. He should have just left when he had the chance. It was a mistake staying this long. The thing is, a small part of him had hoped, even after everything that had transpired, that Dick _might_ just listen to reason.

Dick's head snaps up. "Where are you going?"

"Out," Jason retorts.

"You're still hurt – "

"I'm fine," Jason snaps even as his leg and ribs twinge with pain. He grabs the door and flings it open.

" _Jason."_

Jason flips him off and slams the door behind him.

\---

He's not sure about the extent of the damage the city took, but the sound of sirens blare on ceaselessly in the distance and looming shadows cloak the city in darkness. The thought of going back to Dick's apartment though, makes him nauseous. And honestly? He'd rather take his chances out here.

It turns out his safe house wasn't safe from the blast either though. Caught at the radius of the explosion, the building hadn't completely collapsed, but Jason wouldn't chance walking through the door either. Staring up at the empty shell of a building, something stings in the corners of Jason's eyes, and he turns around to slam a fist into the charred wall.

It's not like he's devastated over the loss. He hadn't planned on staying in Bludhaven long anyways. It had never been more than a place for Jason to keep his gear and catch some sleep on an actual mattress when he could. But he's running on empty at this point, battered and moving on sheer force of will at this point. Talking to Dick earlier hadn't done him any favors either.

Jason sits down on the crumbling steps and buries his head in his hands.

When he first came back, he'd spend hours thinking about what he'd say. It's never as easy as a _hey what's up, yeah came back from the dead and all that, how's it been going for you_. Then he saw Batman with the new Robin, Joker still running around on the streets, and all of his thoughts turned to revenge after.

He swore to himself he wouldn't falter, that he wouldn't lose his footing when it mattered most. But then Dick of all people had to save him, and Jason can't deal with the life debt that comes with that. Out of all the people Jason had anticipated confronting on his return, Dick wasn't one of them. It was stupid to think he wouldn't come after Jason at some point, and out of all the people Jason's thought about, Dick would be the hardest to shake off – persistent as a burr that dug in and held on no matter how much you tried to shake it off.

Caught in the storm, he doesn't notice until it's too late the figure settling in besides him.

"Hey," Dick says lightly, stepping over a fallen pole and dropping a plastic bag of something in front of Jason. "You didn't finish dinner."

Jason stiffens, but doesn't acknowledge him. He stares at the cracked sidewalk, as if he tries hard enough, he can will Dick to go away. He doesn't need Dick to see him now, not when he's feeling raw and exposed like this. Too tired to run, too tired to hide until this, too, tides over – like everything eventually does. But Dick has a tenacious streak as wide as Jason, and deep down he knows he can't avoid this confrontation.

Averting his eyes, he reaches out and grabs the bag, unwilling to concede this as a victory to Dick. The remainder of that night's meatloaf sits pathetically in the Tupperware container and Dick catches the grimace on his face.

"Yeah sorry. Power's been out since – you know…" Dick trails off. He rubs his jaw, running his fingers over the five-o'clock shadow there. It figures that he'd been too busy running around saving people in the aftermath of that night to even shave. Jason had seen the aftershocks too even as he fled across the city from Dick's apartment. Crime doesn't stop, even in times like this, and it didn't take a genius to see that the shattered store fronts and bashed cars came from something other than a ghostly invasion.

Jason looks at the meatloaf, bile rising in his mouth – at least until his stomach grumbles in mutiny. He finally swallows his disgust and forces himself to take a bite. It's funny how Dick's playing nice now.

"Guess I wasn't the best host back there, huh?"

Jason remains silent. Pretends he can't hear Dick over the sound of his chewing.

Not one to give up, Dick just sighs, stretching his legs out and rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. "Whatever it is that Fletcher summoned, it's still out there. We can't just wait until it strikes again." He rubs his eyes wearily. "And with half the police department gone, I don't know how much longer it will be before the whole city goes to chaos. But I shouldn't have blamed you for what happened. I just -" He stops, shaking his head in frustration.

Jason's gone so still, he can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He clenches his fists and stares at the meatloaf sullenly.

"We'd been after him for months, but he just kept slipping through our fingers. And you were right, even if we did get him, he would have walked free within the hour," Dick says. "The only way to bring him to court was to flush out the department first. And we were so close too." His eyes flutter close, hair falling over his face, as the moon finally peaks its head over the rooftops, and he looks just as vulnerable as Jason feels. The realization makes him shift uncomfortably, like he'd walked in on something he wasn't supposed to see. "But it doesn’t even matter now, does it? Half of the department is dead. The other half missing."

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes, and falls silent.

"What do you want from me?" Jason says at last.

"I spoke to the girl, you know? The one you saved?" It feels like it was so long ago. With a slight inhale of his breath, Jason thinks of the fire, the warehouse, the sea. More like a movie than real life, lines lifted off a script, actors instead of people. He can't remember what he was thinking back then.

"She said you could have let her die. That you could have left her there and no one would have known."

"Is that what you came here for? To tell me how _surprised_ you are that I'm not the psychopath you thought I was?" Jason sits up straighter, shoulders jerking back defiantly. "Because let me tell you, just because you have your head up Bruce's ass -"

"No," Dick says, "I want you to come back."

And Jason stops, mouth open in mid-retort, scrambling for something to say. "Did you hit your head or something?"

Dick shakes his head, looking infuriatingly calm, although there's a slight downturn in his mouth. He looks up, staring at somewhere faraway Jason can't see, like he's thought long about this – which he probably has – and has begrudgingly made peace with it. "Where else are you gonna go? It makes sense. If the ghosts come back, it's better we stick together."

"You saw them," Jason rebuts. "You're crazy to think we can do something if they come back."

"There's always something," Dick says stubbornly.

"All right, pretend we don't get steamrolled by a couple of spirits the next time we come back. You'd _trust_ me in your apartment?"

Dick winces, hand twitching instinctively to the shoulder where Jason had shot him last time. "Not a chance."

"Well there you go," Jason snorts. "Glad that’s all settled. Thanks for the meatloaf – "

"But Bruce still thinks you can come back," Dick finishes, lips twisting like there's something sour in his mouth. There's something that goes sour in Jason's stomach too.

He thinks of the last time he saw Batman, right before Jason took a plunge off the building into Gotham Bay. He'd looked long and hard at the both of them – Jason with his burning fury and Joker with his mad, mad smile. And he'd chosen the Joker, Jason remembers – memory of a mad grin against stark white skin eliciting a flash of hatred. It bubbles up, hot and blinding. It's like he can feel the heat of the explosion all over again.

"Sorry to break it to you, but the old man is delusional if he thinks so," Jason says, sneer tight on his face. From the way Dick rubs his temple, it looks like he agrees too.

"He doesn't say it, but he still wants to believe in you. He thinks if you just stop -"

"Stop what? The killing? We both know that ain't gonna happen." Jason curls his lip in disgust. Dick is dumber than he had thought if he thinks he can appeal to Jason this way. It's like he thinks Jason is still fourteen and simple-minded, too blinded by the cape to see under the mask; any appeal invoking Bruce no longer has any hold over him. "He doesn't miss me. He misses having a good soldier to order around. Though I heard he found a new one to replace me rather quickly."

Dick sucks in a breath. "What happened to you?" _Who hurt you?_

Well, there's a long list for that. "I died. Came back to life. Figured out real quick what I actually wanted. Not what people like you wanted me to want," Jason shrugs.

A pained look crosses Dick's face, and Jason suddenly feels very irritated. "I don't give a crap about what Bruce thinks. I don't care what you think. I'm not some sort of pet project you can use to assuage whatever misplaced guilt you guys have."

"That's not what this is," Dicks says immediately. He rubs his eyes blearily.

When he looks at Jason again, his eyes are clear, blue like cresting summer. "Come back," Dick repeats. "It's not like you have anywhere better to stay," he asserts when Jason opens his mouth to protest. "Look. I can't make you do anything you don't want to. That much is clear. But we both know Fletcher is still out there and neither of us are going to stop until he's caught. Not to mention those ghost freakies he summoned. And with the city like this, there's only so much I can do. _"_ Jason catches the undercurrent of a plea in his words, whether it's on Bruce's behalf or Dick's own. He wonders how much it hurts for him to swallow his pride right now.

Dick offers a wry smile. "I promise my cooking isn't usually this bad."

Jason laughs. "You're a dumbass. I could kill you in your sleep, you know?" And God, it's like even now, he can't thwart that needling urge to aggravate Dick a little more – get under his skin and elicit that flicker of anger, because Jason knows that as much as Golden Boy here likes to fake civility, he's got a temper to match Jason's. Do his friends know what it's like to crack open the façade and see what's under the mask? Do they know him like this? Bitter and desperate enough to ask _Jason_ of all people for help.

But maybe Dick is as tired as he is. His shoulders tense, but he doesn't rise to the bait this time. "Just think about it. You know where I am."

And then he's gone, leaving Jason to stare wordlessly into the shadows of the night.

\---

It's not like he doesn't try to make it on his own. He toughs it out for a couple of days, scrounging food and water from the remains of grocery stores that escaped remarkably unscathed from the explosion. He had spent several years on the streets when he was younger after all.

Under the red sun and smog-filled sky, he waits until the smoke has cleared to go after Fletcher again.

But in the absence of order, it's like all the floodgates have been opened as the initial panic begins to fade. After the initial fear of a ghostly reappearance, people begin streaming back onto the streets. The smarter ones stay inside, but those more brave, more reckless, take the opportunity to loot the stores and claim their territory. From a radio he nabs out of an abandoned gas station, Jason hears the government is organizing a delivery of supplies sometime in the coming weeks. From the mouth of a secretary fleeing the city by car, Jason hears the mayor of Bludhaven has fled completely. Meanwhile whispers on the street tell him that Dick might have given up the badge and uniform, but not the costume. And sometimes, he swears he can see a glimpse of sleek black and blue darting around the destruction.

He'd lost his guns in the initial explosion, but he picks up a table leg instead, wielding it with a glower terrifying enough to make the most daring of hoodlums back off. It's the stupid ones that come after him though, and he finally admits defeat after the fifth time someone tries to mug him in the span of three days. It's not that he can't handle them. But he's just so damn tired of beating in another thug's face at two in the morning.

He appears on Dick's doorstep shortly after with a scowl and a begrudging nod at Dick's bewildered face. He opens his mouth to say something, but Jason brushes past him before Dick can say something that will make him regret coming in the first place.

Dick doesn't ask about the Pit, doesn't ask about how he came back to life with his gun in hand and people to kill, but it's just as well, because while Jason might be willing to take advantage of a free place to crash, he definitely isn't ready to talk about _that_ with him just yet. It's just for the time being, honestly. Just until Jason can get out of this shithole. And if their interests in catching Fletcher happen to align, so be it. There's no way Dick will let him shoot Fletcher, but Jason figures he'll cross that bridge when he gets there – especially when he loathes the idea of letting Fletcher escape once more.

Fortunately, he hardly sees Dick for the first couple of days. Jason spends his days prowling the city, picking up a couple of guns he busts out of a broken safe and debating whether or not he should hotwire a car and leave. But he catches wind of a rumor that Fletcher and a couple other executives are bunkering down in an unknown location and decides to feel Bludhaven out for a little while longer.

And who knows what Dick does in his free time. All Jason knows is that at night, he slips back quietly from who knows where, costume dirtied, shoulders limp, and heads to his room – door carefully locked. It abruptly strikes him that there might be another reason why Dick had wanted him to stay. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and Dick with his careful gaze every time he enters the apartment seems to take that to heart.

Sometimes he glances at Jason, pretending to be already asleep on the couch, like he wants to say something. But every time, something dark crosses his expression and he turns away. But it kind of works out as they strike an unspoken truce. Jason pretends not to hear Dick punching the wall on the bad nights and Dick pretends not to see the guns stashed under the couch.

On the sixth day, Dick slides into the seat across from Jason as Jason devours the last box of cereal left in the kitchen. Jason instinctively hugs the box closer but Dick doesn't seem to notice, fiddling with a satellite phone that looks more like a chewed up chunk of plastic than anything.

"I managed to get a call out today," Dick says casually like they haven't been avoiding each other for the past week. He looks infinitely more cheerful today than he has in a while though Jason can still see shadows under his eyes.

"Cool." Jason looks doubtfully at the phone in Dick's hand, not feeling the need to share the fact that he'd tracked down Fletcher and the rest of the Bludhaven officials to somewhere in Midtown.

"The Justice League is still tied up in the Midwest, but Tim says he can trace down where the ghosts might appear next." Right. The new Robin. All of a sudden the cereal Jason's eating tastes more like cardboard, but Dick continues unaware of Jason's sudden downturn in mood. "Every time they've appeared, they've been preceded by an electromagnetic disturbance. Whatever Fletcher's using to call them down, it can be predicted. We'll know before where and when they appear again."

"Yeah, whatever," Jason mutters.

Dick's eyes flicker to the cereal box and reaches out a hand expectantly. When Jason doesn't hand it over, he sighs and gets up, poking his head into the closet. There's not much left in there, Jason had checked earlier. The power had gone out a while ago and none of the stores are up and running yet.

"We're out," he says around a mouthful of frosted flakes, watching as Dick's face contorts with annoyance. As if to rub it in, Jason shakes the box slightly and dumps the rest of the cereal into his mouth.

"Even the emergency rations?"

Jason shrugs, stomach still rumbling slightly. "Finished those yesterday." Dick's apartment in Bludhaven is nowhere near as well-furnished as the Batcave, and though Dick had scrupulously stocked up on medical supplies and rations, they were only enough to keep one person up and running, not two.

"There were _at least_ five boxes of energy bars last time I checked," Dick says.

Jason licks the crumbs off his fingers for good measure. "Oops." Last night, Jason had checked out Midtown again, and took a wrong turn on the way back straight into a fortified school. He'd taken one look at their _pitchforks_ , which he still has no idea about where they had gotten them, and decided that that was not a hill he wanted to die on. The resulting pursuit had left him tired and hungry, and it's not like there was much left to eat at that point.

"Don't tell me you ate _all_ of them. "

"What can I say? The chocolate chip ones are surprisingly good. The blueberry ones are half decent too – surprisingly. Although I've always been more of a strawberry man myself."

"The stores aren't going to be open for another week at least," Dick frowns, hands on his hips. In the moment, he reminds Jason so much of Alfred that Jason almost falls out of his chair.

Finally, he feels a small twinge of guilt, and he thinks for a moment. "Nah doesn't matter. I saw a cute little Walmart down the street that still has some stuff in it."

\---

The trip to the store around the corner is uneventful as the streets are still mostly empty. Occasionally he sees movement from the corner of his eyes in the apartment windows. A shift of a curtain here, a pair of eyes peeking out there. It's always quick enough to disappear when Jason turns to stare back. They come across a family shuffling across the street part of the way through, and the man gives a cautious nod to Dick before clasping a hand on the girl's shoulder and walking faster.

When they finally arrive, Dick insists on taking a careful sweep of the premises while Jason rolls his eyes and walks through the shattered sliding glass doors. The shelves are mostly empty, but they do find some stuff left in the back and Jason shoves his loot into a burlap bag they'd found before heading out. Dick takes another couple of minutes, however, and when Jason turns back, he sees Dick digging through his pockets.

It turns out Dick is _exactly_ the type to insist on leaving money for the stuff they took even when it's one step short of an apocalypse outside.

Jason stops to stare at him before rolling his eyes. "You know, it'll be long gone before the employees come back and find it."

There's more exasperation than irritation in his voice though. He's in a good mood. He'd found a nice box of Twinkies, and Dick hadn't even stopped to lecture him about morality and stuff when Jason took the opportunity to pick open the display case and nab the sweet flamethrower inside.

Dick gives him a look, and rolls his neck before hoisting their bag of goods onto his shoulder. "It just doesn't feel right. Just because no one's watching, doesn't mean you shouldn't do the right thing."

Jason mumbles something under his breath like _goody two shoes_ , but he feels the weight of the Twinkies in his arm and decides he'll take his victories where he could. He breaks one out of the box, hand swift with anticipation, and almost _moans_ when he bites into it. It's just like he remembered. All sweet and creamy and fluffy, like white clouds on a summer day.

The last time he had one – he can't even remember the last time he had one honestly.

"I used to eat these all the time," he says without thinking. He blames it on the sugar bliss.

"Really." Dick glances over at him with surprise. A tentative grin spreads through his face, and for the first time since Jason's stepped foot in Bludhaven, he looks at Dick and doesn't feel any bitterness. "Never would have guessed."

Jason shrugs. "There used to be a lady that would give them out when you were hungry. She'd say her son bought too many, but we all knew better. And let me tell you, there's nothing better than a Twinkie when all your last few meals have come from the dumpster."

"Alfred used to sneak me some after patrol. Even after Bruce banned them -" Dick's eyes flicker to him nervously at the name, but when Jason doesn't react, he continues with a short laugh. "I'd ask the other kids at school to buy some. They thought I was crazy. Son of a billionaire and I couldn't even buy my own Twinkies."

"Hold on. Bruce _banned_ them?"

"I got a little hungry on patrol once," Dick rubs the back of his neck guiltily. "I was like twelve though. And I forgot to eat dinner because someone decided it'd be a good idea to rob a jewelry store right after school. After, we got a tip to watch the aquarium, and I found the Twinkie in my pocket."

"So you ate it?" Jason asks in disbelief.

"I was hungry," Dick says defensively. "It takes like two bites to finish one of those off and I figured I'd just put the wrapper in my pocket or something. I didn't think it'd be a big deal. At least until I tried unwrapping one of them. I don't know what they use to make those wrappers, but it was like stepping on bubble wrap. It gave away our position immediately and Bruce ended up having to save me from being used as fish bait."

Jason shakes his head. "You’re a dumbass, Grayson."

Dick grins. "If I had a penny for every time someone says that -"

"Let me guess. You'd be rich."

"Nah, I'd have a penny," Dick says cheekily. "Now come on. I saw another store around the corner that looked like it's only been half-looted."

\---

Jason remembers most clearly the second time he meets Dick. (The first time doesn't count. He didn't even really get a chance to talk to the guy before Dick started yelling something at Bruce and stormed out).

The second time though, Jason had taken a nasty sprain to the ankle and fled the wrath of Batman to hide out on one of the city rooftops. At least until he was ready to go back. Bruce might know the layout of Gotham on the back of his hand, but he didn't know all the nooks and crannies only a child could find. What Jason hadn't counted on though was someone else stumbling into his hiding spot.

Dick still has his first Nightwing costume – a blue and yellow flamboyant number with a neckline low enough to make the old ladies blush. It looks gross, and Jason tells him so when Dick drops in next to him abruptly enough to make him screech. Dick doesn't leave, however, and Jason resigns himself to being hauled back to Bruce like a disobedient puppy.

But nothing stops him from scowling, arms crossed, and saying, "You can drag me back, but you can't make me talk to him. I never want to talk to him again."

And Dick just looks with an amused smile that Jason thinks he has no right bearing and spreads his hands in the air. "Not gonna if you don't want to."

"So why are you here then?" Jason demands, eyes narrowed. Dick might only be a couple years older than him, but he still acts like an adult. Sometimes Jason resents him for it, because Bruce talks to him about all the stuff he won't talk to Jason about.

"Hey, I just wanted to talk to you. I realized I never got the chance to before. You know. One Robin to another."

Jason crosses his arms and leans back under the awning with a huff. "And what if I don't want to talk to you?"

"I have time," Dick says with a shrug. His eyes are bright, however. "I can wait.

It's the first time he realizes Dick isn't someone easily dissuaded, and Jason switches tracks with a frown. "How did you find me?"

"I used to come up here too. Although it's a lot smaller than I remembered," Dick laughs. He stretches his legs out with languid ease and when he looks at Jason, his gaze is knowing. "You aren't the first Robin that's hid from Batman, you know?"

" _You?"_

Dick runs a hand through his hair, but he loops an easy arm around Jason's shoulders. Jason stiffens, but doesn't pull away. "Batman can be pretty scary sometimes, but underneath it all, he's still human you know. He makes the same mistakes we do." When he looks at Jason, there's a twinkle in his eye. "I bet if you go back right now, he'll feel so bad, he'll apologize to you."

"I didn't listen to him though," Jason mutters. "He told me to stay hidden."

"And you saved the lives of ten people," Dick counters. "Some people conflate fear and anger, especially when stressed. Bruce can be one of them sometimes."

Jason shrinks back sulkily. "He told me I was grounded."

"That's what he always says." Dick offers him a roguish wink. "Give it a couple of days and ask Alfred to make steak for dinner. That always softens him up a bit. And if not, give me a call. You know where to find me." He shoots one last reassuring smile at Jason and flips off the roof with a wave.

At fourteen, this cements Dick Grayson as the coolest person Jason's ever met. Except for Wonder Woman. And Superman, he guesses. He's never had a brother before, but Dick Grayson is close enough to one that Jason places him on the pedestal, right under Batman.

Then Jason dies, the pedestals come crumbling down and everything goes to shit. He comes back wondering all the _could've been_ 's, _would've been'_ s, _if only_ 's -

And so it goes.

\---

They hit up another store next because Jason's definitely going to try score as many free things as he can while he still can.

"Underwear?" Jason asks. "Seriously?"

"You know much it chafes under the suit," Dick says defensively. He cuts a cool figure against the setting sun. His hair is tousled in the wind. His eyes are earnest as he throws a careless arm around Jason's shoulders. And Jason flashes back to those five years ago.

Startled, he drops the copy of _Les Miserables_ he'd been holding and almost forgets why he'd tried to avoid Bludhaven in the first place.

\---

Of course it would be too much to ask for a peaceful outing when fate has already granted Jason with the holy trinity of Twinkies, flamethrowers and a renewed passion for French melodramas. They run into a group of men as they're leaving their fourth store. Looking at the hard expressions on their faces, Jason thinks this isn't one he or Dick can talk their way out of.

Their eyes narrow in on the bag of supplies that Jason and Dick have collected, and Dick stiffens.

"We're not looking for any trouble, gentlemen," Dick says coolly when they approach. He opens his hands as if to placate them and dissuade them of the threats he and Jason pose.

It makes Jason snort because Jason knows just as well as any other common thug in Gotham (and probably Bludhaven too) that Dick is just as lethal without his weapons. He himself reaches towards his gun – until Dick sends him a look of warning – and he scowls and discreetly reaches for his flamethrower instead.

The one in the front waves the rest of the men back and smirks. "Good. Because neither are we. We'll just take that bag of goodies you have there and we can all be on our way."

"Unfortunately, we've called dibs on this one. The store's right there, if you want some more though," Dick says lightly with a tilt of his head. "Although we might have taken the last box of Twinkies."

The leader shakes his head, grimy hair falling in front of his eyes. "I don't think you understand, boy. We want that one." He points to the bag Dick still has slung over his shoulder.

Dick pauses, and for a moment, Jason thinks he might just give in to avoid the confrontation. Jason might be armed, but Dick doesn't have any of his gear on him, and Jason can practically see the wheels turning his head, weighing the costs. There's a deceptively mild smile on his face, but his eyes are calculating as always.

Jason stares at Dick with narrowed eyes. He better not give that up. "Don't you dare," he warns. His Twinkies were still in there.

Dick's head jerks in his direction, as if he'd forgotten Jason was there. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, but he nods, grip tightening around the bag. "Sorry, you heard my buddy there. This one's ours."

"Too bad we weren't asking," the guys replies and he leers at Dick. "I'll give you another chance. Hand over the goods."

Dick blinks. "You know, most people at least take me out to dinner before saying that."

One of the guys snickers. The leader visibly recoils before his expression twists into anger. With a snarl, he pulls out a knife and lunges forwards. Dick twists out of the way, and the knife only grazes his back.

"The fuck you waiting for?" The guy yells. The men behind him glance at each other uncertainly before pulling out an assortment of weapons that Jason guesses they'd picked up off the streets.

One of them steps forwards with a bat, but Jason is faster, hand moving from flamethrower to gun, feet firm against the ground. His gun goes off and –

Dick's bent over the guy, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. There's a bloody slash on Dick's back, but he doesn't seem to notice as his fingers press tighter against the tide of blood. It's silent and Jason stares at him, shadow stretching between the two of them. Everyone else has long fled.

"That," Dick hisses when Jason approaches, "was unnecessary." His hands are stained with red, but his eyes are ice blue. He presses his fingers desperately into the man's chest, but Jason knows it's too late. The gun is warm in his hand and he never misses.

"He was going to kill us," Jason says blithely.

He thinks of how many near misses he's seen, how many near misses he himself had lived through. Where he could feel the breeze of hell against the nape of his neck, and the difference between life and death was just the sneeze of fate. That's the difference between them. For Dick, some prices are too high to pay. For Jason nothing is ever high enough. He looks at Dick's pale face, and digs his nails into his palm so hard it bleeds.

One step forwards. Two steps back.

\---

Dick is quiet when they get back.

Jason flops onto the couch, throws an arm over his eyes and thinks of how many days it would take for him to walk back to Gotham, Fletcher be damned.

He cracks an eye open when he hears a thud and a whispered _fuck_ coming from the kitchen. From the nook of his elbow, he watches Dick pull out the med kit and try to clean the knife's gash across his back. His hands shake slightly and a pinched look comes across his face as he stretches to unzip his suit.

"Here," he says abruptly. "Let me." He clambers over to Dick and takes the gauze.

Dick watches him warily through the mirror hanging across them, but maybe it's a two-way street, because Jason can watch him too like this. Every rise and fall of his breath, every flicker of his eyes, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. He follows Jason's every move, but even then, his eyelashes flick up, startled, when Jason touches his skin.

The cut isn't too bad. Caught off-balance, the man hadn't been able to put his whole force behind the blade and the result was only a glancing blow that stretched diagonally across Dick's shoulder blades. It's shallow enough that Dick wouldn't need stitches. Dick wouldn't even need to be out of action if he was careful about it.

"You got lucky," Jason tells him, pressing the wetted gauze to the cut. Dick inhales slightly at the sting and Jason can feel his muscles tensing under his fingers. His skin is surprisingly warm and it burns against Jason's hands.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dick replies with a slight grimace. As if in agreement, Jason absentmindedly runs the tip of his nail over one of the other scars crisscrossing Dick's back and feels him shudder.

If he breathes in, he can smell the sweat and blood and something more like the sea salt breeze on Dick. He doesn't remember the last time he was this close to a person he hadn't tried to kill. His hands were always better for war and destruction, not healing. Blood was easy to spill. But cleaning it back up? That was harder.

Dick's eyes briefly flutter close when Jason pulls away. Probably thinking something Jason doesn't want to hear.

"You didn't have to kill him," Dick says and Jason stills. _Whoop there it is_.

Jason leans over his shoulder to stare at the two of them into the mirror. Under the jaundiced light of the kitchen, they sit de-masked and vulnerable. Two ex-Robins like a twisted family portrait. "Tell me then. What I could have done," he says. He can almost feel the way Dick tenses under him.

"Anything else. There's always another option. Who are we to decide who lives and who dies? That's not justice."

"Don't talk to me about justice. I didn't have an option back then, did I? Back when the Joker blew me up sky high? I didn't get to choose the good, the bad, the in-between. It came to me."

"I'm sorry," Dick says. Jason's breath leaves him as he startles into a scoff.

When he gathers it back, he shrugs and sits down into the chair. "For what? You weren't even there. Last I heard, you were off the planet. Trust me when I say you couldn't have done anything. Hell, even Batman couldn’t do anything. That's what they said after. Jason Todd. The second Robin. The fool. Who put himself in situations even Batman can't salvage." He bares his teeth in a self-deprecating grin.

Dick looks away and under the light, he looks startlingly young. Jason always forgets that he's not more than a couple of years older than himself. The realization makes the room feel startlingly intimate. "Sometimes I wonder what might have happened. What if I had talked to you before hand? What if I had visited more? Would you have reached out before trying to save Sheila Haywood by yourself?"

"Maybe I would have, maybe I wouldn't have. Who knows?" Jason says. "Doesn't matter when it's all in the past. And I don't care much for that. I don't even care that Batman couldn't save me. But you'd think he'd be able to get off of his high horse and get rid of the Joker for once and for all if he truly cared."

Dick opens his mouth, but Jason shakes his head with frustration. "Don't tell me it's because of his code or whatever. _You_ told me to remember he was still human after all. And he is. He failed when it mattered. " He bites down on his cheek and all of a sudden he's back in the warehouse. Timer ticking down, mad laughter in his ears. It's the first time he realized what it mean to be truly alone. "Even the bravest man would crack. So what was it? Indifference? Incompetence? Mercy?"

Dick's shoulders slump. His fingers massage his shoulder like he can feel the impact of Jason's bullet like that night so many days ago. "None of the above."

"What were you wrong? Or maybe I didn't actually matter."

"No," Dick says. "You're forgetting something else. Because he _did_ care for you. You didn't see him after. He was a mess. Sometimes I think if it wasn't for Alfred – " He breaks off and swallows. "But when it came down for it, I think he did want to kill the Joker for what he did."

"Then _why_?" Jason demands.

"Fear."

Jason breaks out a short laugh. "Yeah right. You're telling me Batman was scared of the Joker."

"Not the Joker," Dick corrects, voice faltering. "Himself. I think he did want to kill the Joker, but then what would he be? Without the code, without the will. It's not hard to slide from there. It would destroy him. I wasn't there – for him and for you, and I'm sorry for that. "

Jason stills, thoughts racing a million a minute. And Dick – Dick looks like he's stumbled upon some momentous truth himself and had broken himself in doing so. It abruptly strikes Jason that this is Dick's fatal flaw, just as it had been Jason's before the fall. To love too much and burn yourself in doing so.

\---

Jason didn't mean to become Robin. He stumbled into it, a Batmobile tire tucked under each arm and freefalling all the way down. But afterwards, he had embraced it. How could he not? When it was everything he had imagined. He'd put on the mask, the cape, the red, the green, the yellow – and took off running.

For a while, it's like a dream come true. He built wings of grappling hooks and dreams, dragging himself higher and higher on his self-made ambitions, forgetting how to walk when he could fly. He put his idols on a pedestal and loved them for it. Then one day he looked up and he was no longer reaching for skyscrapers and steel towers, but the sun itself.

It only takes a schoolboy to recount what happens next: The Joker, Sheila Haywood, the Lazarus Pit. First he burned, then he drowned, and in the end he came back a little more than messed up in the head. He didn't mean for that to happen either.

\---

"She was my biological mother," Jason says abruptly, the day after.

They're bent over Dick's map of Bludhaven in the kitchen, trying to brainstorm possible locations Fletcher might be hiding. The power still isn't on since apparently Dick's backup generator got destroyed three months ago in an altercation involving a second-rate crime lord, and the small print of the map under the flickering candles (made for scented rooms rather than functional use by the way) makes his eyes hurt. He pushes his chair back and rubs his eyes wearily.

They'd been staring at the damn map for _hours_.

Dick stifles a yawn from where he's bent studiously over the portion of the map containing the docks. "Wait, who was your mother?"

"Sheila Haywood. You know, the person I tried to save before I – " He breaks off and lets the sentence hang, swallowing hard when the word gets stuck on the tip of his tongue.

Dick looks up at him with a crease between his eyes. He doesn't look surprised. "I'm sorry," he says. Like he hadn't apologized enough for the things he hadn't done.

Jason shrugs. "It's not like she was a great person. She did a lot of bad shit – you know – fraud, embezzlement, illegal operations," he ticks off all the items on his fingers. "Got tangled into a lot of nasty things, and those were just the things I knew. And get a load of this. She called herself an _aid worker._ " He chuckles darkly, remembering how excited he had been. How hopeful, how _naïve_.

"But you loved her." It's not a question.

"Well, yeah – I mean she was my mom. Since my first mom died and all that. I didn't even know her, but I loved her." Hell he'd loved her even after everything went down. Even after he knew what kind of person she was. Even after she sold him out to the Joker. Even after they were tied up in a warehouse in the middle of Ethiopia, with only a ticking bomb for company. He'd clung to that elusive hope that he could bring her home, and fit her into his life like a seamless puzzle piece.

"You were young when you lost your parents. It's natural that you'd gravitate to someone you'd thought you could relate to -"

"Yeah, but isn't it dumb? Even after she practically handed me over to the Joker, I still couldn't let her die." Jason brushes his hand over his eyes and stares into the flickering flame of the candle, not unlike unwavering winds under the desert sun. "I remember laying there, after being beaten up, and just thinking – what's the point of all this if I can't even save the people I love. What's the point of having all this power, all this equipment, if I can't help what I care about most."

He glances at Dick who is quietly staring at him. "And then I thought about how much more I could do, if I treated criminals like the scum they were. That maybe I could help others too who didn't have the same abilities as we do."

"Sometimes, the hardest thing is to accept that we can't save everyone," Dick says gently.

"Doesn't mean I can't damn well try."

Dick smiles softly, "Can't argue with that. " He steps towards him, arms coming up like he's going for a hug, before he catches himself. He lays a hand on Jason's shoulder instead, and it settles, heavy and warm. Jason tenses, but doesn't shake it off.

Then his stomach growls embarrassingly, and he realizes suddenly that he can't remember the last time he ate a full meal.

"Now how about we get something to eat? I remember we got several cans of ravioli from the last run we went on. If we add some canned beans on the side, it'll practically be a full course meal," Dick continues.

"Well I dunno about that," Jason laughs weakly, slightly grateful for the change in subject. "But I'm hungry -"

He sees the mischievous glint in Dick's eyes before Dick even opens his mouth. "Hi hungry, I'm – "

Jason groans. "Don't you dare finish that sentence after I just spilled all my guts to you. Or I swear I'll beat your ass with that can of garbanzo beans."

\---

In a stroke of luck, the power finally comes back on.

In a second sheer stroke of luck, Jason walks into Haines on his way to scavenge more supplies. Looking a lot worse for the wear, he doesn't even have the chance to shout before Jason's knocked him out and slung him over his shoulders. Jason walks back into the apartment with the smug grin of a cat who's caught the early bird and an unconscious Haines in tow.

"You think we should ask him about the whole ghost thing?" Jason asks when Dick comes back from patrol.

Dick ponders the question for a minute and then purses his lips. "Honestly, I couldn't even make sense of it when Tim was trying to explain it to me." His nose scrunches up behind the mask. "All this stuff about the electromagnetic field, the quantum field and something like the yarn theory."

Jason agrees with him, surveying the room for any ideas. He'd always been more of a think before you act kinda person. His eye catches on the computer that Dick had hauled into the living room "Hold up. I have a better idea."

They prop Haines up on the chair in front of the computer and video call Tim. When Haines wakes up, Jason presses a gun in his head, Cheshire's grin spreading across his face.

"So. Haines right? What've you been up to lately? Cozying up with Fletcher? Summoning more freakies?"

\---

They tuck a tracker into Haines's jacket after, assure him that he's free to go and the dumb fuck actually believes them. Sometimes Jason wonders how a person can be smart enough to summon ghosts from an alternate dimension, yet be so stupid at the same time.

Now if only Haines was dumb enough to take a wrong turn and walk himself into the ocean.

\---

"So it turns out they are in fact ghosts," Tim says dryly. He's clutching a mug of coffee that looks bigger than his hand, and when Dick presses him for more details, he has to stifle a yawn.

"Not in the sense that they can haunt you or anything though. Think of them as spirits. Wait," Tim frowns. "That's not right either. More like impressions. Coalesced emotions, memories, ambitions – you name it – of the dead. Feelings can do a lot of damage, you know." Jason swears he's looking right at Jason when he says this.

"That's dumb." Jason ignores the warning glance Dick shoots at him.

 

It's not like Tim had been the nicest when he first found out that it was Jason who Dick had been working with. Dick had kicked Jason out of the room for twenty minutes and when he came back, Tim was noticeably more diplomatic, despite the occasional dubious glare. He guesses the whole stab-your-successor thing hadn't exactly been forgiven.

Tim rolls his eyes. "Dick used to date an alien that can shoot laser beams out of her eyes. Zatanna can use magic. People come back from the dea – " He stops as Dick clears his throat and rubs his eyes blearily. "Er right – anyways, considering what we deal with, ghosts aren't too out of the question."

"So how do we get rid of them," Dick asks.

"That's a little trickier. If you can get them to come to Gotham, I can do some research. I don't think you can destroy them, but maybe if I can somehow contain them – "

"Cool," Jason interrupts, reaching for the power button. "Just let us know."

Dick frowns at him. " _Jason_." But Jason's already shutting the computer off.

\---

(Dick files for temporary leave from the police department the next day. Jason doesn't ask how he does it when the police department is understaffed as it is in the wake of all the chaos.

Dick's face, looks suspiciously blank as he hands in the form, and when he turns away Jason can see his mouth tightening into a flat line. He resists the unsettling urge to run his fingers through Dick's hair and coax away the lines on his face.

And if Jason has to resist a stronger than normal urge to check out Dick's ass in the suit right after, he is a healthy young adult male with unexplainable, unfounded urges, thank you very much.)

\---

He walks in on Dick talking to someone on the computer one night and resists the urge to do something to embarrass him. He wonders who it is. A co-worker? A girlfriend? He doesn't remember if Dick had mentioned whether or not he was dating anyone.

But when he peeks around Dick to catch a glimpse of the shadowy figure on the screen, he freezes and back up slowly, tripping over a chair.

"It'll be fine," Dick says. "How's it holding up in Kentucky?"

 _Batman,_ he mouths at Jason.

True enough, when Jason leans in closer, he can hear the deep rumble of Bruce's voice on the other end of the line. Something ugly wells up within him. The last time he heard this voice, it hadn't ended on good circumstances. The same can be said for the time before that.

"You said they were ghosts?" Bruce asks sharply. Jason can practically hear the irritation through the soft static blur of the phone line.

"Yeah, we caught the guy who summoned them and Robin had a nice talk with him."

 _Robin_. He hadn't been Robin for such a long time – neither had Dick. Jason had tried to leave it behind when he clawed his way out of the Lazarus pit. One more untenable attachment to his old life. But it still makes him tense up, an irrational trickle of possessiveness surging up.

"Alright. Do you need me to come back?"

"No, we have it under control."

"We?"

Dick glances at Jason and Jason shakes his head, hand tightening around Dick's shoulder.

"Robin and I," Dick says instead.

"Alright. I'll be back within the week." Bruce sounds unconvinced. "And Dick?"

"Yes?"

"You've done well." There's a soft _click_ and the call ends. Dick puts down the phone with a sigh.

"What was that about?" Jason asks. _You've done well_. The words echo through his head and he inhales sharply. How long had he craved to hear those words. And now that he finally has, they weren't even directed at him. Bruce didn't even know he was there right now.

Dick runs his fingers through his hair and frowns. "The Justice League is still out there. Apparently the ghosts withdrew the night we blew up half the city. Left a pretty big mess there though and Bruce is out there with the rest of them trying to clean it up. He wanted to come back here, but I told him it was under control. They're spread pretty thin right now. And I think we have this under control."

"You sure about that?" Jason jeers.

Dick glances at him startled. "What is your problem?"

"What's your problem?"

"You tell me. You didn't even want me to _mention_ you to Batman."

"Sorry if I'm tired of playing second string to a guy who can't even catch one _guy_ to save his city. Sometimes I wonder if you even care." It's an underhanded blow, not even rooted in truth, but Jason's too embittered to care.

Something in Dick's eyes flare. "Is this about Bruce? Daddy issues much?"

" _You did well_ ," Jason mimics. "Not sure if I'm the one with daddy issues here." He stands up to leave.

Dick catches his arm, however, and his fingers are like a vice around Jason's wrist. His eyes narrow. "No I'm tired of arguing about this every time. I thought you were done throwing temper tantrums about this."

" _Temper tantrums?"_ Jason hisses. "It's easy for you to say." Dick wasn’t there all the nights Jason spent in the training room trying to live up to Dick's ghost on a pedestal, didn't see the faraway look in Bruce's eyes when he put his arm around Jason's shoulder for the first time with a _good work today, Robin_ \-- never knew what it felt to be feeling second hand and used and desperate all the same.

"Look. I know you don't want to hear it, but he did care. We weren't on that good terms when I left. He didn't even tell me about you until later. But later, he'd send me pictures you know. Tell me about how proud he was – "

"Don't," Jason says tersely.

Dick shakes his head. "But he was. I _saw_ him. Even though -"

He cuts off with an unintelligible exclamation as Jason pushes him back against the couch. The backs of Dick's knees hit the cushion and he tumbles down, Jason on top of him.

"Stop talking about him," Jason says roughly.

"No," Dick looks up at him defiantly. He doesn't try to push Jason away though, and if possible, his hands tighten around Jason's arm. "Just because you don't want to hear the truth doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You can't keep running from this forever. He wasn't the best parent, but he -"

Desperate for any way, anything to shut Dick up, Jason surges forwards. It's not so much a kiss as Jason's mouth colliding into Dick's. And _ouch_ he can definitely feel blood welling up. Dick opens his mouth soundless underneath him, but Jason feels a heady rush through his veins, almost like adrenaline, like facing off against the odds once more. He moves his free hand to curl his fingers through Dick's hair.

So maybe he'd thought about surpassing Dick when he was younger. But he'd thought about this too. Back when he was wearing spandex and a cape, more hormones than rational thought, especially when his hand was down his pants. Dick's suite had been tight enough, even back then– and it's not like living with Batman gave you many opportunities to find other outlets.

"Jason -" Dick says when Jason pulls back. The rest of the words seem to get lost in his throat, however, and he merely stares at Jason, flushed and flustered, before his hand loosens around Jason's wrist and all fight goes out of him. At the sight of him, Jason's throat closes up and he tries to stifle a flutter of panic.

So yeah, he'd thought about it, but he'd never planned what he would do next. Usually what came next in his mumbled dreams was a fist to his face. And when he realizes that isn't coming, he freezes and turns to run.

Dick's hand closes back around his arm, however, and there's a quick flash of panic that morphs into a determined look on his face when he pulls Jason back down to kiss him again. He can feel a jolt of heat when he swipes his tongue against Dick's. His thumb curls at the junction of Dick's neck, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat, too quick, too delicate. Dick responds with a shudder that runs down the length of his body.

He pulls away with a sharp inhale. "If I'd known it'd be this easy to shut you up, I'd have done this earlier," Jason muses, staring down. The sight of Dick, rumpled quiet for once, under him makes his cheeks heat up. "Are you always this easy?"

He wedges his knee between Dick's legs and hears Dick groan. Dick loops an arm around Jason's neck and pulls him down again. This time, Jason actually kisses him properly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and he can feel Dick responding to him, hardening against his thigh. His skin is warm and steady underneath Jason's palms and Jason slides down under his cheek is pressed against Dick's hips.

"You said you hated me. Do you kiss everyone you claim to hate?" Dick finds his breath to counter. He stifles another groan when Jason straightens up momentarily and grinds his thigh against him.

Jason ignores him in favor of unzipping Dick's pants. "I've thought about this, you know," he says, hooking a finger and pulling at the waistband of Dick's underwear, "Back when I was younger. You probably didn't give a shit about me, but I looked up to you, you know?"

Another look of something like guilt flashes across Dick's face, and it makes something dark and heavy curl in Jason's gut. He noses at Dick's cock and feels him tense underneath his fingers. The resulting rush of power makes him dizzy. He looks up with a salacious grin. "Nothing to say now, huh."

He curls his fingers around Dick's cock, heavy in his hand, and takes it in his mouth. Dick's hips jerk upwards, but Jason holds them down and has to swallow his groan at the sound Dick makes.

When Dick doesn't say anything else, Jason glances up. Dick is frustratingly stiff underneath him, hips straining to keep still, head tilted back, arm thrown over his eyes. Jason experimentally flicks his tongue and a whimper makes its way out of Dick's mouth. It's enough to embolden Jason to take him deeper, fingers coming up to curl around the base.

Dick's hips jerk upwards helplessly, and Jason can feel Dick's fingers scrambling at his back. When they brush over the scars on his skin, a thrill goes through him and he suddenly realizes how very painfully hard he is too.

It's quick because God knows when was the last time either of them had gotten off. Jason hollows his cheeks around Dick's cock and Dick's fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair before he comes with sharp inhale.

Afterwards, Jason strokes himself off until he comes with a whimpered groan, head bowed, and collapses boneless on the couch. Dick's skin is hot enough to burn under him. In the silence, he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Then -

"I do care," Dick says, so quietly that Jason almost misses it. His arm is still thrown over his face, and Jason can't see, doesn't want to see the expression on his face. Would it be self-loathing? Or disgust?

"What?"

"The first night after the explosion. You were still sleeping, but I went down to help out. Nobody knew what the hell happened. For all they knew, it could have been anything that came down and blew their homes up. And after we pulled off all the rubble, all the charred wood, she was just there, dead under the concrete. God, she couldn't have been more than eight. And I tried so god damn hard to save her."

Jason swallows hard and closes his eyes. "I know."

\---

They don't really talk about it afterwards.

A hidden ache reawakens in his chest that makes Jason thinks of Munich with it's brightly colored roofs and quaint streets. He spent a couple of weeks there once, learning different poisons and antidotes. His teacher was a retired assassin who also moonlighted as an ardent soccer – no _football_ – fan that dragged Jason along to weekly games at the arena. And gradually Jason picked up German too.

The foreign language still rolls of his tongue clumsily, all harsh consonants and mouthy syllables, but to Jason's then delight, the Germans seemed to have a word for everything. In between his lessons on belladonna and hemlock and arsenic, he plucked his favorite words and saved them like ripe plums for safekeeping. There's _geborgenheit_ and _treppenwitz_ and _weltschmerz_ and the ever painful _ohrwurm._

His favorite is _schadenfreude. To laugh at the pain of other_ s. A lovely word for a cruel, cruel thing. It's too bad he never finds a similar word for laughing at your own pain. He guesses the closest thing to that is _masochism_ or maybe even _self-deprecation_ , but they just doesn't have the same flair to it, the same crunch – like biting into an apple.

Although to be honest Jason didn't think he'd ever need a word like that. Until Dick walks into the kitchen the next morning, fingers pinching his nose like he's trying to ward off some bad hangover, and says, "Look. I'm sorry about what happened last night. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

And Jason makes a noise crossed between a strangled laugh and a choked gargle, and thinks he'd like nothing more than a word like _schadenfreude_ now.

He doesn't know how to explain it. The hysterical feeling of driving into a dead end, no way out. How do you tell someone that somehow, somewhere along the way, your wires got crossed and you don't know how to separate love from hate anymore? He remembers the way Dick's hips had jerked up underneath his fingers. The sound he made when Jason twisted his tongue just right like Jason had just scraped his soul out of him. It's the same feeling as the first time Batman calls him _Dick_ when they come back from patrol, but Jason doesn't know what anymore.

He kind of envies the way Dick sits, so shameless, so sure of what he wants.

The earnest expression on Dick's face reminds Jason of Munich again – at the last football game before his teacher had tried to poison him. The team had just scored, ball following a beautiful trajectory, right above the goalie's outstretched fingers, before settling into the goal with a _whoosh._ For a brief moment, the crowd was silent. Then, with a tremendous wave of red and white and blue, diamonds on stripes on jerseys, the sound hit, like a meteor crashing into Earth.

Jason didn't understand the beauty of football. Didn't understand the appeal of twenty two men kicking around a ball for an hour and a half straight. But he had understood when his teacher looked at him, grinning so hard with tears in his eyes, and said with a jab of his crooked finger into Jason's chest: _Mia San Mia_. _We are who we are. Do you understand now?_

Two days later, he found hemlock in his tea. The day after, his teacher's body was found in the soccer arena, but Jason was already two countries over by then.

In the present, Jason looks at Dick and shrugs. "Whatever. It won't happen again."

\---

Except it does happen again.

Tim calls on a Wednesday morning with an apologetic expression on his face. He doesn't even have to say anything before Dick begins pulling on his suit. Jason just puts on his mask.

"Where?" Dick asks, zipping up the back of his suit. He's having trouble with the zipper and Jason absentmindedly yanks it up for him. Tim tells them, eyes flickering to the small motion and Jason draws back as if stung.

The ghosts hit south Bludhaven this time, as if destroying the north and west weren't enough. Unlike before, Jason and Dick are ready this time. But like before, they still have no way to stop them when a hole rips itself in the sky and the air crackles with something akin to electricity. _And there’s more than one._

Descending on Bludhaven like avenging angels, they form nebulous shapes so bright that Jason can't even look at them directly. _Ghosts,_ Tim had confirmed. And perhaps they truly were roaming spirits, untethered, unbounded. There's a wild air to them as they swing through the city like a toddler in a sandbox. Not even steel and concrete can stand up to the otherworldly and they collapse like clay under the onslaught.

There's nothing to do, but minimize the damage as they embark on their rampage. And in the end, it's never enough. For all the people Jason and Dick pull out of collapsed buildings, all they people they save from a supernovan explosion, there's always more that slip out of their grasp.

When the ghosts disappear like last time, they have nothing more to work with than before.

It's Dick that kisses him first this time when they're back at the apartment and a chill runs down Jason's back at the look in his eyes. He takes a step forwards, expression flickering on the edge of something wild, and Jason instinctively opens his arms when Dick murmurs something like _can I, just please, this once._

And then Dick is wrapped around him so tight that Jason can't make out where he ends and Dick begins.

He wonders at what point Dick had stopped looking at him like a ticking time bomb and more like a – what? Jason doesn't know how to describe this _thing_ between them. Not friends, not enemies. Dubious allies that partake in the occasional blowjob? He still catches the hesitant glance Dick throws his way when Jason pulls out his gun, and he doubts Dick misses his own sneer when Dick insists on maiming rather than killing. But there's enough familiarity between them to make Dick clutch at him desperately when needed, like a drowning sailor on his last floating keg.

He imagines the hate sex would be _great_.

(And it is.

They fuck later on the couch, Jason's fingers digging in so hard, there's no way Dick won't have bruises the next day. Dick is sprawled out beneath him, eyes screwed shut, and Jason kisses his way up Dick's neck, leaving a trail of blooming red behind, like he's burning his brand on Dick's skin.

He imagines this is how he leaves his imprint. Because with every thrust, every coaxed out bruise, he's leaving behind evidence of his debauchery that even Dick won't be able to shake off the next day.

His hands come up until he can feel the flutter of Dick's pulse and curls his fingers around Dick's neck. Dick's eyes fly open, hands coming up to wrap around Jason's arm and he expects Dick to say something, maybe squirm away. Instead, a shudder runs through his body and he presses into Jason's grip, eyes falling close again.

The idea of it is so hot, that his hips jerk up, making Dick arch up with a small moan, grasping at the couch beneath him. When he thrusts again, Jason can feel the muscles in Dick's throat working as he lets out a choked gasp. It's enough to make Jason bury his head in Dick's shoulder and come with a surprised noise of his own.)

\---

 

It’s easier to talk to Dick after that. Sometimes Dick tells him stories about his time with the Titans. In return, Jason tells him about the places he’s trained at after Talia. He wonders what he would have thought, two weeks ago, had he known that he’d be sitting at the kitchen table swapping tales with Dick Grayson.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,” Dick says abruptly one night, staring wistfully out the window.

 “Well, let me tell you, it’s a whole fuck lot dirtier than it looks,” Jason snorts.

 “You’ve been there?”

Jason thinks of a tale of a crazed professor and a half-deranged boy fighting in abandoned subway tunnels and fight rings. It is his to tell, after all. He clears his throat, and stifles a yawn. “Well, let me tell you – “ 

\---

It turns out that letting Haines walk out with only a tracker works out after all.

They pick up its signal and trace it to an abandoned art gallery near the docks. By the time they get there, however, whoever had inhabited the space is long gone, leaving a mess of broken boxes and torn paintings. The air is foul with the stench of rot and Dick wrinkles his nose.

"Guess it'd be too much for them to clean up after themselves before they leave."

Jason kicks at an overturned table to reveal a mess of salt and a wooden cross. "Nah, Looks like Haines and Fletcher are having some second regrets about our paranormal friends." Another nudge of his foot reveals a sludge of burnt candles, dried herbs and _is that a bowl of blood?_ He gags at the smell. _"_ Gross. You'd think they'd be able to conduct all his nasty rituals in his mansion now that the power is back on."

"We've got surveillance on his house. He'd be apprehended before he even stepped foot into the foyer. Got to give him credit for that. He's been in hiding ever since."

"Not smart enough to think his plans through apparently," Jason scowls. "Now we have to deal this mess. What a dumbass."

"You're right." Surprised, Jason glances at Dick who is nodding knowledgeably, before he shoots a wicked grin at Jason. "Which is why I didn't need to stop by a certain warehouse to pick up a certain _person_ who had fallen into his trap."

"I meant for that to happen," Jason says defensively. "I set my trap by falling into his trap." He shoots a dirty glare at Dick's smug expression. "Besides, didn't someone tell me about a similar tactic they used when Harley found a certain boy wonder hanging in a tree by his spandex."

Jason can practically see Dick deflate. "I was thinking ten moves ahead. And we got her in the end, didn't we? Besides, I'm surprised you still remember that story. I told you that to make you feel better after you drove the Batmobile into a tree. Not to use against me. You _promised_."

"Promises, my dear, were made to be broken," Jason drawls. He prods at a dirty canvas – no doubt a bad reproduction of some painting currently hanging Europe. In tiny font, the title reads _Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by Pieter Bruegel._ He can still make out an idyllic country landscape set against the sun-illuminated sea. "Look at poor Icarus here. His father probably promised that they'd make it out of prison if he put on those wings of his. But look at him. They broke and he fell into the sea. You can't even see him in the painting – even though it's titled after him."

"Never took you for an art critic," Dick laughs. "Although I heard a different story. They told him not to fly too close to the sun. You can't say no one warned him."

"How was he supposed to know how close the sun was? Ever tried looking into the sun, Dickie?"

"You're right. If only he had a pair of sunglasses," Dick mourns, although his face looks constipated as if trying to hold back his laughter. "Or a life jacket." A laugh shocks its way out of Jason's chest and he traces over the splintered frame.

"Yet he was reduced to nothing more than a speck in the painting."

Dick shrugs and he looks at Jason, carefully like he's afraid Jason will run, grin fading to a small quirk of his lips. "I wouldn't say that. After all, he has a painting named after him – and a bunch of shitty pop literature references. Sure, he failed to make it across the ocean, but it doesn't mean he's forgotten. Even if as a cautionary tale to others."

"A tale of his failure," Jason says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Well, yeah. Haven't you heard? Falling is the easy part. Now getting back up, that's a lot more impressive. Imagine if he had crawled his way out of the ocean, broken wings in hand. I bet he could have gotten a movie deal with that story – let alone an entire novel."

Jason snorts. His finger catches on a small piece of paper tucked caught under the frame. With a glance at Dick's curious stare, he pulls it out and smooths out the wrinkles under his fingers. His smile flattens out.

_Madame Roma. Gotham's best psychic._

_"_ What is it?" Dick asks, pressed so close, Jason can feel the solid outline of chest against his back. He looks at Jason searchingly, but his eyes are soft.

The roll of an inexplicable emotion shudders through him like the tide of the sea. If he turns his head, he'd be able to catch Dick's mouth in a quick kiss before he'd even have a chance to react. Not that he'd need to. Maybe Dick would have reacted a couple of weeks ago. But Jason can tell by the way he looks at Jason here and now, that this Dick would kiss him back, pliant and easy under Jason's hands.

Jason doesn't know why Dick had kissed him back all those days ago. Maybe he'd seen the flight in Jason's eyes and determined the best plan to make him stay was to offer a tendril of affection, like luring a dog with a steak on a string. That maybe Jason, starved and angry would follow with his tongue drooling behind him. And Jason had. But it's more than that now. Trapped in his own trap, Jason thinks with a rueful twist of his lips. Ten steps ahead, his ass.

There's no denying it. Dick looks at him with the steadiness of an eye of a hurricane, but his hands are terrifyingly gentle when they reach over to brush Jason's shoulder. And Jason feels like he's drowning once again.

Jason shakes his head and holds up the piece of paper instead. "Guess we're going back to Gotham."

If only Icarus had a life jacket back then indeed.

\---

Here's the thing. He doesn't realize just how razor thin the line is between love and hate until he kills a man for the first time.

His mind is still fuzzy at times, thoughts laced with nihilistic rage and ugly memories buried under a tenuous membrane of Pit-green sulfur, but he remembers most of the motions just fine. How to shimmy out of ropes and jimmy a lock. How to stop a man twice your size when he locks you in a chokehold. How to break a bone with the least amount of force applied. What he doesn't remember is how to hurt a man enough that his heart stops beating. Honestly, at this point, he's not sure what is past, what is present, and he's definitely not sure if he ever knew.

Then Talia brings in an instructor who teaches Jason how to wield violence in a way that's lethal. There's pressure points that can make even Batman drop dead in a the blink of an eye, directions in which he can bend fingers to elicit the maximum amount of pain, delicate angles at which a knife is slipped in between the ribs to get to the heart. His instructor's good, but he sneers at Jason like he's trash underneath his boot. At the end of it, Jason sends an elbow into his teacher's face with machine-like efficiency, knocking him to the floor and then straddles him to wrap his fingers around his neck – just like he was taught.

And as he holds his former teacher down, pressing back into the struggling, into the thrashing, he realizes just how intimate it was to feel the drop off of a pulse, to dig into warm skin with his fingers until the kicking becomes twitching becomes stillness. He doesn't remember what love is, but he imagines it must be something like this. To hold a life in his bare hands, naked and vulnerable and ripe for destruction.

The realization sends a rush of fear through him so strong, he almost lets go. When he looks through the window to where Talia is watching, she looks back. Expecting. Waiting. He finishes the job.

After that he picks up a pair of guns and learns how to shoot – it's much less personal that way.

\---

Dick's communicator rings on the way back from the art gallery. Jason watches him stare at the device for just a moment before picking up, finger tracing the outline of Tim's picture on the screen, like he can somehow postpone the call of duty for just a minute more. Then he slides his thumb in a fluid flick and his voice is smooth.

"The docks? Yeah, we were just there, what's up?" Dick stops walking, head tilted sideways, listening intently. "Are you sure?"

Slowing down his stride, Jason tries to see if he can catch the tail end of Tim's murmured reply. But Dick shuts the phone before he can and turns to look at him with a small quirk of his lips.

"Tim called. He says they'll hit the docks next. Guess we have one more stop before we can go back. I could really do with a shower right now though."

Jason doesn't need to ask who _they_ are. Instead, he nods, hand sliding back to his gun tucked at his hips – like it'd matter when they're up against eldritch beings who can bend metal as easily to their will as sand. The familiar feel of it in his grip slows down the panicked beat of his heart. "How long?"

"In about – " Dick breaks off to check his watch with a frown. "Ten minutes."

"Well I heard they got the plumbing up and running today," Jason says. He grins, fearless and dangerous. "So how about we make it quick and beat their asses so hard their ghost tushies never recover?"

He hears Dick's quick laugh, like quicksilver cutting through the sky, then they're running, feet pounding against pavement, through the city towards sure destruction.

It's funny. He'd spent the first thirteen or so years of his life running away from destruction. He knew all too well what it was like to walk into a scene with too many limbs and blood. If you weren't killed by the men who believed you saw too much, you were shaken down by police with more distrust than sympathy in their eyes. He knew just as well as all the others on the street. Keep your head down, mind your own business, and everything might just be fine.

Then he'd went and gotten himself into the whole business and spent the rest of his life running headlong into other people's businesses. Not that he had regretted any of it.

They get to the docks just in time to see the telltale whirlwind. Leaves spiraling off of trees in a manic frenzy, paper ripping itself off of walls, the waves whipping rapidly under a darkening sky. Like the last few times, the wind seems to contract into a pinpoint before exploding with a brilliant light and _there they are_.

The air smells weirdly metallic, like burnt copper and dimes, when they step down to the ground, and Jason barely has enough time to duck before a chunk of a roof whizzes at his head.

"You think they're mad?" he shouts at Dick.

The first ghost takes a step in his direction so Jason empties the gun at it and scowls, "That's for last time, you _prick._ " The bullets pass through it, however, and when Jason throws himself to the ground to avoid a deck chair that passes dangerously close to his head, he can see the bullets lodged in the wall behind.

"I dunno," Dick shouts back. "I don't think shooting at it is going to make it any better." He tries to trip one of them with a stray wire, but it explodes in his hands and he's thrown back into lamp pole.

"Like you have any better ideas!"

Thankfully, most of the docks are deserted. Most people opting to take the smart route and hide in their homes until the threat of imminent destruction was gone. It's when the ghosts have smashed through most of the storefronts that they turn to the row of townhouses lined behind and Dick yells something incomprehensible under the sound of the rushing wind.

The first building tears like tissue paper under the onslaught. The second goes down just as quick.

At the third, the apartment doesn't collapse. Not at first. It teeters before settling into an unsteady equilibrium, steel creaking ominously before falling silent with a hiss.

Jason spots a small knee poking out of the doorway, hand gripping the doorframe, reaching out in a desperate scramble away from the collapsing brick and steel, and he dives forwards. There's a brief moment of weightlessness before he hits the ground with a grunt. He looks up, breathless. Then everything comes crashing down.

 _Fuck_.

Everything's cold and dark, and he gasps soundlessly under the sheer weight of it. It's gone quiet around him, all screams fading away into a blurred murmur and for a fleeting moment he wonders if he's dead. Although he can't quite remember if it'd hurt this much the first time. He tries to move his fingers and sucks in a panicked breath when he can't. The last time he'd felt this -

His breath seizes up, lungs burning, and he forces himself to think of the ocean instead. If he squeezes his eyes tight, he can pretend the blood rushing in his ears is the lull of the tide. That the pressing weight on his chest is the caress of the waves. That the freezing cold in his chest is the kiss of the sea-spray.

And the burn goes away.

It's strangely peaceful, the certainty of death. He wonders if this is what it's like to love the sea. Drowning with the current pounding at your skin and water filling your lungs, but to love nevertheless at the certainty of it.

He's heard the stories of sailors being lured to their death by mermaids. But he thinks they might have been wrong. What if it wasn't the mermaid's songs that lured men to their deaths, but the croon of the sea itself? A tune as sure as time itself, hypnotizing men to melt their wings and jump.

A small window of light opens above him, like a glimmer of sunshine grazing the ocean floor, and all the sound comes surging back like the crash of the waves. Dread seizes him and he wishes desperately for the light to go out.

There's shouting above him, weight lessening off his limbs slowly, and arms prying a child out of his arms. He didn't even notice she was there, he thinks dazedly. And Dick – Dick is pressing his too warm hands to Jason's skin, saying something with worry creasing his eyes.

"Wha – ?" Jason mumbles, lips feeling to heavy to move.

Dick's shoulders sag and he sits back as the last weight is removed from Jason's legs. Jason half expects him to make a witty remark, but he instead opens his mouth and – "I thought you were dead."

Jason lifts his hands with great effort and buries his face in them. He forces his lips to stretch upwards. "Wouldn't be the first time. Can't get rid of me so easily, you know?"

\---

It's a miracle he hadn't broken anything, Dick tells him. Though the apartment had come down, the doorway had held enough of the weight off for Dick and the survivors to dig him out. The ghosts disappeared in a bang as bright as the one they had arrived in shortly. Eleven dead, but the child is alive. Sometimes he thinks numbers hurt more than they're supposed to.

They make their way back to the apartment. Dick helps him peel off the suit and stumble into the shower, pausing hesitantly at the door, before Jason pauses for a moment and pulls him into the spray of the shower. He breathes into Dick's shoulders, and when he smells the salt brine, he looks up questionably.

"I might have taken a dip in the ocean," Dick says with a grimace. "It's why it took so long for me to get to you."

"Nah, I was fine." The water stings against his skin, running over the cuts and scrapes scattered across his skin like freckles. It'd been so long since he'd had a nice, clean shower, and he basks in it.

"No – you really weren't. A building fell on you. A fucking _building_. You're lucky someone saw you running or -"

"I've been through worse," Jason says dismissively.

" _Jason_."

"It's true."

"That's the thing – " Dick shakes his head, wet hair flinging water in every direction. He pushes back the damp strands to look at Jason, mouth pursed in a frown. "It's like you didn't even care – _I saw you_. Before you dove in like an idiot. You could have been taking a walk in the park for all you cared. If the doorway hadn't held, if the building had collapsed at a different angle, if the ghosts had come back from round two – then what?"

"Jesus. What should I have done then? Just let the building come down on that kid? Don’t tell me you wouldn't do the same thing."

"There were so many other things you could have done. You had time. She would have been out by the time the building came down. You could have pulled her out instead of diving in. Called for help before going in. Stabilized the structure first."

"Maybe I didn't notice."

"No, you're a dumbass sometimes – but not with things like this," Dick says.

Jason scoffs. He leans his head against the cool tile of the wall behind him. "Sorry we're not all as perfect as you."

"This has nothing to do with me." Dick's eyes narrow. "God, it's like you have a death wish or something."

"Oh please. We're vigilantes at the best. Anarchists at the worst. You say that like it only applies to me. Shall I recount all the times you've decided to go in without backup?"

"But nothing like _this_. At first I thought you did the bare minimum to not get killed. But now, I don't even know if you'd do that – "

Something in Jason's gut drops and he curls his fingers around the nape of Dick's necks and pulls him for a kiss. The best way to get Dick to shut up, he had realized, was to kiss him. Press a thumb to the corner of his mouth, hand down his pants, until the only thing coming out of his mouth was a pretty moan.

To his credit, Dick breaks away and says, "You can't avoid this conversation forever, Jay."

In response, Jason kisses him again and ghosts a thin line across the flat expanse of Dick's chest with his fingers. When Dick, stills, breath coming out in quiet gasps, Jason sucks at his junction between neck and shoulder and feels him shudder. He knows he's won when Dick squeezes his eyes close for a moment, shaking his head with a murmured _fuck,_ and his hands come up to wrap around Jason's neck and pull him closer.

Jason's embarrassed at the sound that escapes his mouth when Dick slides a leg between his thighs and he tenses down at the spark of heat that runs through his body. He determinedly works his way down, mouth hot and wet against Jason's skin, and Jason lets his head fall forwards, eyes fluttering shut with a groan.

Water comes down upon them in hot rivulets and Jason lets his mouth fall open to suck in the warm air. When his hand finds its way to brush at the curve of Dick's ear, sweeping down to trace Dick's jaw, Dick pulls away with one last press of his mouth.

"Gonna get out of the shower. Think of the poor whales," he laughs, muffled breath intimate in Jason's ear. Before Jason can make a joke about mothers and whales, Dick's reaching out behind him to twist the shower off and whatever witty retort he'd thought of dies at the tip of his tongue.

He tosses a towel at Jason and Jason stops only to hastily wipe off the worst of the water before he presses forwards for another kiss. They stumble to the couch – and if Dick tumbles in a way that has him pressed up against Jason, in between his legs, in all the right ways, so be it.

"Wait. Do you have – " Dick looks up at him with more clarity than Jason thinks he should have considering the situation.

"Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you talk to much?" Jason mutters. But his fingers dig deep into the couch cushions until he finds the small bottle of lube they'd used last time and tosses it at Dick.

He barely has time to even think before he hears the _click_ of a cap and Dick is pressing a slick finger into him, crooking in just the right place. One finger quickly becomes two and Jason scrabbles at the couch cushions, trying to stifle the moan that falls out of his mouth.

Dick bends down to kiss him, fingers still working into him steadily. Jason impatiently tugs him in closer and arches his hips up. His eyes fall shut as the motion makes a spark of pleasure jolt in him.

"Are you planning on fucking me before I die?" he groans. He thinks he can feel Dick smiling underneath his fingertips.

In frustration, he wiggles his hips enticingly and watches the resolve on Dick's face crumble.

Everything is too hot, too oversensitive when Dick finally fucks him. It's been a while since the last time he'd done this and the burn of the stretch makes his toes curl. He hooks a leg around Dick to press him closer, until they're faces are almost touching.

Dick's face is flushed and when Jason flattens his hand against his chest, a tremor runs through him. He closes his eyes briefly, lashes dark against his skin, and when he opens them back up, it's like he's staring at Jason, ten thousand miles away.

"What?" Jason demands. Another thrust makes his vision white out for a second and he has to force his breath into a steady rhythm.

"Hm?"

"Your face. It's all ugly like you actually have two brain cells to rub together when I'm fucking you."

Dick blinks. "I don't."

"Yeah right," Jason scoffs. "I'd know that face anywhere. I grew up with Bruce too you know. And he has the same exact face when he's thinking something I don’t like."

Dick flinches and he stills for a moment. Then -

"It's like you don't know," Dick says lowly, eyes dark, "just how valuable your own life is. You run around like it's worth nothing to you, but you have no idea how much _potential_ you have _."_

 _"_ Come on, Dickie. Let's not pretend I'm doing anything special here," Jason says, arching up again with a satisfied moan. "And let's not pretend I'm some saint or something just because I came back from the dead. Just made a Faustian bargain with the devil. Really makes you wonder if this counts as necrophilia. Especially this weird obsession of yours in trying to fix me."

Dick frowns, but he doesn't falter. He fucks the same way he fights. Graceful, yet precise. At the heat pooling in his cock, Jason knows isn't going to last that much longer. He reaches down to jerk himself off, but Dick is quicker, fingers encircling his cock, leaving Jason's hips to jerk up in frustration.

"Are you serious?" Jason hisses.

Dick shakes his head and ignores him. "I'm not going to lose you again."

"Too late for that, buddy. Didn't you hear? These hands are too stained to be saved."

"I might have thought that before," Dick admits, "but I was wrong. You're still the same. I remember the first time I met you." His head tilts back, and he swallows hard. The staccato rhythm of his hips makes Jason grasp frantically at his shoulders. "You just wanted to do what was right. And that hasn't changed."

Jason twists, desperate underneath him. "Still the same? Doesn't the fact that I kill people bother you?"

"Everyday." Dick's eyes squeeze close for a second. "And then I wonder if there's something wrong with me. Because even then, I just think – _God,_ I'd still do anything for you. Tell me how high and I'll jump. Tell me how deep and I'll fall. I'd break apart the oceans, move mountains, even if…" he trails off with a shiver.

Jason feels as if the ground has dropped beneath him. He thinks about loving the sea and decides _fuck that_ , loving a man is so much harder. He can't stand the way Dick is looking at him – like he's worth something more than he is. He's seen that before. But the thing is, now, when Jason thinks about crushing that expression under his heel, breaking through the rose-colored pane that Dick sees him through, he thinks he'd rather drown. And that's a problem.

"Now tell me who's the idiot," he laughs stiffly instead, breaking off at the knot building in his stomach.

"Well, since you're still here, I guess the both of us," Dick says, head bowed. When he kisses Jason, it's like he's kissing with the desperation of a marked man. Like Jason can grant him deliverance and mercy and peace in a tidily wrapped up bundle called love.

He murmurs something else that Jason can't hear, doesn't bother hearing, over the sound of his own orgasm pulling in. His senses are going into overdrive, muscles stretched so taught – the world might just snap under the weight – if Dick would just, could just stop being so stubborn.

Then Dick releases his fingers from around him, snapping forwards his hips one last time, and Jason's caught in the crash of the wave.

\---

This, he thinks, is definitely getting to be a problem. He wonders when fucking Dick became less about the thrill, the rush of power that came along with the idea that he was _fucking the golden boy_ , and more about the way Dick responds to his touch _just right_ , the way he looks at Jason that makes him want to plunge into the water and save a helpless whale.

A flicker of hatred laced with panic curls up within him, withering and cold. He's not sure who it's directed at. Himself for feeling this way, or Dick for making him feel this way. It sends a bitter taste in his mouth.

He remembers the judgement on Dick's face when Jason shot a man, the self-deprecation that twisted his mouth when he confessed. There's too much of Batman in him, in both of them – and it makes Jason want to throw up.

Although, for all his faults and tendency to throw himself headfirst into deadly situations, never let it be said Jason couldn't activate a survivalist streak a mile wide when he wanted to. They would never work out. Hell, Jason doesn't even want it to work out.

He thinks of it like this. They might be floating galaxies in endless space – because even now, under the revulsion, under the self-flagellation, he wants nothing more than to tether himself to Dick Grayson for the rest of eternity. But that's the problem. Eventually, they would fall further and further into each other's gravity until one day, they intertwine and collide, planets and stars and shit mixing in an intergalactic soup. He's not quite sure what usually happens next, but in this case, he figures some black hole will explode and then they'll both be sucked into the aftermath.

As they say, when the heat gets too hot, get out of the kitchen. The only thing now, is to figure out how exactly to get out of the kitchen when the kitchen itself is ruthlessly persistent and wants to believe desperately that you're a good cook.

But Dick Grayson had as good as handed over his heart on a silver platter. There's very little that would deter him – it's something Jason had admired about him when he was younger – but when it comes down to it, he is still human.

He glances at the way Dick is sprawled over him, warm and comforting, and decides.

\---

There's a feisty little thing out near the club where Jason had met Fletcher for the first time. She doesn't look like most of the other working girls prowling the block. Her hair is drawn back in a sleek ponytail, clothes simple rather than revealing, and when Jason pulls her aside to ask her how much, she tells him straight up – _three hundred, no more, no less_ and _we lost our apartment in the explosion you know, this will pay for some of it at least._

Jason looks hard at the way her blue eyes stare at him, as if daring to refuse – so earnest and fearless and naïve at the same time – and thinks she might just do.

It's more about the principle of the matter after. Jason forks over the last couple of fifties he has in his pocket and brings her back to the apartment where Dick is still sleeping in his room. He offers her a drink from Dick's dusty liquor cabinet, to which she refuses, and she lets Jason help her out of her jacket.

When Jason presses her into the couch, she sucks in a small breath, like the flutter of a bird. He'd fucked Dick here just yesterday, he realizes with a detached interest as he winds his fingers into her dark hair. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans in for a kiss, but she presses her slim fingers to his cheek and tilts her head up – almost haughtily.

"You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you were thinking about someone else."

Jason shrugs, settling onto his elbows as she stares up at him. "Does it matter?"

She laughs, sweet like the mercurial breeze, and for the first time, Jason regrets choosing her and her clear blue eyes. "I guess we all are at some point." And she pulls him back in.

From there, it's easy. She's soft underneath his fingers. He traces the curve of her cheek, maps the freckles on her chest like stars in the night sky, and kicks the lamp of the table besides the couch for it to tumble to the ground with a loud crash.

She stiffens, mouth parted, and Jason leans in to swallow whatever sound that slips out in a parody of a kiss.

When he looks up, Dick is standing frozen at the doorway, chair clutched in hand as if ready to beat up whatever intruders might have broken into the apartment. He hadn't had the chance to throw on a shirt and the sight of him makes Jason's throat close up.

He offers Dick a tousled smile. "Sorry about that. You know how I get sometimes."

Dick's knuckles are so pale against the back of the chair Jason's afraid he might crack the wood. But his face twists before folding into a blank smile. He glances at the girl underneath Jason and gives her a short nod, running his fingers through his disarrayed hair. His expression is pale under the moonlight, but his eyes are dark.

He gives them a self-deprecating smile that makes Jason's insides twist, hollowed and starved. "Nah, guess I was stupid to think there might have been something. Got my hopes up I guess."

And then he's gone, door shut behind him.

Jason pulls away from the girl and slips on his shirt again. The room feels colder now and he feels goosebumps prickling over his skin. He picks up the girl's shirt and offers it to her too.

"Wait, you're done already?" she asks, taking it from him with a frown. "We didn't even -"

"Yeah," Jason shrugs. "I paid you already, right?"

"Yes, but – "

Jason picks up her wallet and holds it out too. "Eighteen is really too young for these things. No matter how bad it gets," he frowns. "Do you need me to walk you home?"

"A gentleman at all the wrong times," she laughs scornfully. "How old are you? Twenty something? Not that much older, but still a little too old to be pining for someone, don’t you think?"

"Who said I was pining?" He slips another bill into her hand and passes her his jacket. "It's kind of chilly outside, but here's some more for your trouble."

A small smile slips its way onto her face and she tilts her head pleased. "Well, if you say so. But really -"

He shuts the door, wind rushing in his ears.

\---

The punch that catches him on his face the next morning is expected. Jason wipes away a dash of blood from his lips and winces. Dick really hadn't held back.

"Guess I deserved that, huh?"

Dick examines his own knuckles disinterestedly, as composed as ever. "Yeah, you could say so."

"If you want, I can explain – " Jason begins, feeling like oddly calm now that he's weathered out the storm. It's not too different from playing a part, going undercover, rehearsing your lines. And if it feels like he's folded himself too thin, shut himself in a cage of wax, that's alright.

He waits for Dick to follow it up with a short, "No, I really don’t." And he does, before turning away so that Jason can't see the expression on his face.

Fortunately, Dick's phone rings before the silence can stretch on for too long and Dick straightens up as he takes the call.

Jason watches Dick rummage through the cabinets, phone tucked against his shoulder. His shirt rides up against his hips and Jason looks away, swallowing hard. Well, he had made his choice.

"Hey Tim – Yeah, we're heading to Gotham today. We think Fletcher might be heading there next. Have you heard of a Madam Roma?"

Whatever Tim says next makes Dick pause, silence going on for one beat, two beats, before he says, "Alright, thanks for letting me know. Guess we can try to knock out two birds with one stone then."

"What?" Jason wants to know when Dick turns back around.

"Where were we the second time the ghosts appeared?" Dick asks shortly.

Jason shrugs. "I dunno, the apartment?"

"No – like before that. Didn't we go out?"

"The stores," Jason realizes. They'd gone out to get more supplies.

Dick presses his fingers to his head, like he's trying to stave off a headache. "Tim has a theory – "

"Doesn't he always?"

Dick shoots him a glare. "He thinks that since we broke whatever device Fletcher had been used to summon the ghosts, they're drawn to the next closest thing."

"The next closest thing? The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"No, think about it. Besides cemeteries, and funerals, what else on Earth is the closest to death?"

"A living, dead man. And they showed up at the docks because -" Jason realizes. "We were just there investigating the art gallery." _Well shit_. Having a horde of angry spirits following him around was definitely not on the list. _"_ Did he say how we can get rid of them?"

"No, but if we can go to Gotham and find Fletcher, maybe we can figure something out."

\---

Gotham is just as he remembers it, all hulking shadows and crumbling architecture. The streets still smell like piss and trash, but Jason quickly realizes that a small part of him had missed the place. He stares at all the stores that pass by, trying to avoid the awkward silence that stretches out between him and Dick.

Dick hadn’t even looked at him after, and it stings more than it’s supposed to. Even when Jason had knew it was coming. Even when he had planned it.

They pass by the old ice cream place that used to have a sweet two for one deal on Fridays, the dilapidated library that saw more drugs being passed around than books, the shoe store where his mum got him his first pair of boots, and Jason realizes some things just don't change. He wonders if he'll see the same faces if he walks down the street. Would they recognize him? Probably not.

 _Madame Roma's_ is a dusty little building tucked between a bar and a shifty payday loan store. It's the kind of store that would draw naïve tourists and fervent locals, but repel all others that had even half of a brain. The door twinkles when they push the door open and Jason's immediately hit with a spicy, musty smell.

Curtains draped over the windows block all light except for the flickering flames of enough candles to be a fire hazard. Shelves of tarot cards, posters and potions announcing themselves to _induce a state of love in any man of your desire_ , line the room, making Jason shudder. The worst is a mummified cat stares at him from the counter.

A bored teenage girl looks up at them when they enter. Her bubblegum bursts with a small _pop_ and she sets her phone on the counter with a look of bored annoyance. She doesn't look fazed at all by the masks they're wearing.

"Yes?"

Dick steps forwards with a smooth smile. "We're looking for Madame Roma. Is she in right now? We were hoping to ask her a couple of questions. "

The girl rolls her eyes. "She's on lunch break right now. Come back in an hour. Or stay here if you want. I don't care."

"Did she meet with a guy named Fletcher?" Jason demands, stepping forwards. He eyes the mummified cat warily. It looks almost alive.

"Sorry, can't tell you anything – we take client confidentiality very seriously," the girls says, already turning back to her phone. She plugs in her earphones and her acrylic nails tap the screen with small clicks.

"Great," Jason groans. "I bet he's already figured out some way to sacrifice one hundred virgins to get take back control of the ghosts or something."

"You don't know that yet." Dick catches sight of the mummified cat too and he takes an uneasy step back. _Same_.

The door chimes again and a voice comes from behind them.

"She can't tell you anything, but I can."

Jason whips his head back to look at the interloper. Well, speak of the devil. "The hell are you doing here?"

"I uh – was hoping you guys would stop by," Haines says, looking out of breath and just a bit terrified. If he had looked like shit the last time they let him go, now he looks as if someone had stuffed him in a dryer and then ran him over with a wrecking ball. He scratches his head and shrinks in on himself. "I had my fingers crossed you would get my flyer back at the art gallery."

" _You?"_ Jason blinks at him. Maybe Haines hadn't been so dumb as he thought.

"I want out." Haines wipes at his brow and collapses in a dusty seat that looks like it hadn't been cleaned since the store opened – which is probably at least in the early 1900s judging by the god-awful décor. A cloud of dust puffs up and he sneezes. "Whatever Fletcher's doing, he's not going to stop until he's destroyed Bludhaven. My apartment was _destroyed_."

"People died. And that didn't stop you before," Jason scoffs, gripping his gun.

"Ah – yeah, I'm sorry about that. I just wanted a way to make a living after Fletcher shut down all the factories near me. I was a scientist, you know – at least until I found this occult book in my grandpa's attic. And I figured, if you can't beat them – join them." Haines buries his hand in his hands. "I didn't realize exactly what that would entail."

"What's he doing now?" Dick asks.

"Fletcher? We were trying to figure out a way to control the ghosts again – after you broke the device last time. We couldn't figure out why they kept appearing in all these random places, because by all means. When the device broke, they should have disappeared with nothing tethering them to the mortal realm in the vicinity. So we figured we'd try to regain control over them by making another device – but it wouldn’t work this time."

Well they would have, Jason thinks, if he hadn't been there. It feels like something in his chest has frozen over.

"And then?" he prompts with a sinking feeling.

"Well, we came here to ask what were doing wrong. And the Madame said they were already bound to something else and we had to present something stronger to overcome that." Haines shivers. "Something about finding something with more ties to death. I didn't want anything else to do with this whole ghost thing after so I told Fletcher to shove it up his arse and left. He took the device though."

"Did he tell you where he was going?"

"The bridge near East End, I think." He looks up timidly. "Alright, there. I said my part. I'm going to head out now, but I just couldn't have this on my conscience."

He gets up to leave, jacket clutched in hand, but Jason steps in front of him. "Whoa, we didn't say you could just go like that."

Haines backs up, hands up, until he's pressed against the door. His face has lost all color. "I don't know anymore, I swear."

"And what if you change your mind, huh? We can't just let you go running back to Fletcher and let him know we're here." Jason takes a step closer, watching Haines like a hawk.

"What are you doing?" Dick hisses, grabbing Jason's arm.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Jason pulls out his gun. "I'm just cleaning up the loose ends. Doesn't matter that he's feeling sorry now. He _killed_ all those people. And if he gets back to Fletcher, we're as good as screwed."

"Doesn't mean we have to _kill_ him. He helped us out for God's sake. He _told_ us that he was done with Fletcher."

"And you're just going to trust him on that?" Jason scowls.

Dick shakes his head. "Of course not. I'm going to let Tim know and he can handle it. But what happened to second chances?"

"Second chances? Where's the justice in that? He fucked up, there's no other way to put it."

"Isn't that what I gave you though? Another chance?" Jason clenches his fists so hard, he can feel his nails digging into this kin. That was a low blow.

"And look where that got you," Jason throws back. "Don't look so angry, we all knew it was coming. That's what happens when you can't take care of business. I told you it was a bad idea from the start." And he had, hadn't he? He'd warned Dick from the beginning, and Dick with his dumbass bleeding heart had still fallen for it.

"Maybe it was," Dick acknowledges, eyes bright and furious. "But it doesn't mean it should never have happened. It's like you're no different from any of the criminals we fight."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jason's voice rises. It's like they're back in the first night at Dick's apartment. Some things don't change indeed. "You have _no right_ to say that. Not when you've never experienced what it's like to live in fear. Never knew what it was like to be failed by the people, the system, that are supposed to be doing the very opposite. I don't know why I ever thought you'd ever be different from Batman." Dick flinches, as if physically wounded, and Jason knows he's hit a sore spot.

"This is still a Bludhaven matter. If you can't accept it, then l _eave_." Dick's voice brooks no room for arguments. Jason stares at him disbelievingly.

" _Fine_."

He steps past a petrified Haines with a sneer and slams the door behind him.

\---

He wounds up back in front of the old ice-cream store, and it might not be Friday, but he gets a scoop of vanilla ice cream anyways. The old man at the counter stares at him a little too long, but eventually hands over the cone without an argument. It's just as cold and sweet as he remembered it. The taste of it sends a pang of nostalgia in his chest and he stares at the swirl of ice-cream, willing it to turn back time.

"A little lost, little bird?" An amused voice sounds from above him.

Jason jumps, almost spilling his ice-cream, and glances up at the roof. A sleek figure shimmies its way down with fluid grace, landing in a crouch.

"Thought I'd seen the last of you after the whole fiasco with Batman." He guesses it must really be a day for old faces. Selina Kyle straightens up in front of him, regarding him with a flirtatious smile. "Guess you didn't take my advice after all."

Jason looks away with a glower. "How do you know I didn't?"

"Word on the street is that the Red Hood started working with Nightwing in Bludhaven, and yet here you are – alone in Gotham." He hates the way she pins him down with her deceptively light stare. She's smart, Selina, and exactly the type of person he was hoping to avoid.

Jason raises his ice-cream mockingly. "And maybe this is right where I want to be. Maybe I just wanted to enjoy my ice-cream without a righteous ass spouting moral epithets every time I breathe."

"I think we're both a little too old to be believing that," she laughs. Jason bristles.

"Why are you here anyways?" he asks. "Last time I checked there aren't any jewelry stores here for you to rob."

Selina regards him with that sly smile of hers. "Nightwing isn't the only one watching what you do, you know? Think of it as an early investment for a third party that'll come around some day."

Jason snorts. A bat-like third party, no doubt. "You should watch out where you stick that nose of yours. Remember what they said about curiosity and the cat."

"I'm sure the satisfaction from whatever drama you have going on is enough to bring me back," Selina says, amused. "You wouldn't believe all the stories I've been hearing. Something about a bat, a bird and a ghost?"

"More like a brat and a ghost," Jason says scathingly.

Selina laughs, lips curling up. "Nightwing?"

" _Nightwing,"_ Jason agrees. He kicks at the curb. "He's all about being the moral police, until someone runs to him crying and begging for a second chance. And he just wants to fucking give it to him."

"Some might say he's just being merciful."

"And what is mercy but a failure of justice," Jason shoots back. "If everything was _just_ , there would be no need for mercy."

Selina shrugs, unfazed. "Does it matter? Justice and mercy, two sides of a coin. Doesn't matter which side you try to uphold, you'll falter in the end. Either of them is too much for one person to carry. As for me, I prefer to walk my own path. "

"Tell me what's left then," Jason scoffs.

"Personally, I find forgiveness the easiest," Selina says. "Hold a grudge, forgive a grievance. It's all up to you in the end. And with that, it becomes a lot easier to remember what truly matters.”

 

When Jason doesn’t answer her, she pats him on the shoulder, light like a glancing breeze. “Now, what do you _really_ want?"

\---

For the longest time, he thought there was no coming back from the Lazarus Pit. Sure he might have a beating heart and a pair of working lungs, but some changes won't be seen so easily. There's no other explanation for the brittle rage that fills his veins, the smothering weight of known mortality, the volatile bent of his temper. And he'd built himself around it – internalized it until it was all he'd existed off of. He'd knit himself around the jagged wound of what he should have been until all that was left was a facsimile of what he used to be.

But now, at the end of the line, he thinks he's too tired for this – a tin soldier that's burned far too long. _What do you really want?_

He thinks of the past. How much of it he takes, how much of it he keeps to to steer the present.

Not this. Not anymore. He’s tired of running on vengeance and anger, and he’s starting to think he might just be worth more than that. Jason thinks of Haines, head bowed and terrified, ghosts looming like archangels in the distance and –

Dick's arms wrapped around him so tight, breathless in the dark, the weight of him in Jason's arms, so warm, so real, the way he holds Jason tight like he'll never let him fall again. And Jason realizes he's run himself empty at last, melted down to a delicate tin heart, black as coal, but still beating.

He looks to the setting sun, balanced on the edge of the horizon, and thinks he might just want to try again.

\---

 

It's not hard to find out where Fletcher is going. _The bridge near East End,_ Haines had said. And sure enough, he can see two figures at the ledge, wind whipping around them. Dick is shouting something, carried away by the rush of the wind, and Fletcher is clutching a familiar looking device.

"I thought you were still hiding your wimpy ass in Bludhaven," Jason calls.

Fletcher's eyes widen when they come to look upon him. He holds something in front of him and Jason realizes it's not the same device that they'd use to summon the ghosts. With a snarl, he shakes it in front of Jason's face. "Take a step closer and I swear I'll blow the bridge up. Why the hell couldn't the two of you just stay in Bludhaven?"

"You know, this all could have been avoided if you just stuck to bribery and murder like all the other corrupt guys," Jason tells him. "But _no_ , you just had to go a step further. And look what's happened. You can't even control these ghosts you summoned."

"Not after this," Fletcher says. "They should have disappeared the moment you two broke the connecting device, but since they didn't, I figured they were just waiting for _me_. And I just needed a little something more to establish a connection with them again. What's better than fifty cars plunging into the ocean to add a little spice of death – "

"You want to know why they didn't disappear?" Jason grins, all teeth and anger. "Because I'm here. Nothing closer to death than a man that's come back from the dead, am I right?"

Fletcher pales. "You?"

"Yeah, I guess that makes them like my cousins or something." And okay maybe he's pushing it a little, but it's worth it, to see the tremor making its way onto Fletcher's face. "Honestly, I could throw myself off the bridge right now and the moment I die, you'd never be able to summon them again. Not without Haines anyways."

"Like you'd have the balls to do that," Fletcher scoffs.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jason can catch Dick getting into position behind Fletcher.

"I would," Jason assures him. "But I'm not."

"And why's that?"

"Because he doesn't need to." With a swift punch to the face, Fletcher goes sprawling sideways, remote clattering to the ground.

Dick straightens up and acknowledges him with a slight nod. He passes over Jason coldly. "Thanks, but I didn’t need your help, you know."

Jason's throat feels really tight all of a sudden, and his fingers curl up. Suddenly filled with the desperate need to explain. "No, wait – this isn't about that. I'm sorry, you know. Okay, not for the killing and stuff, but I've done some thinking – "

"If this is about what happened in the apartment, you've told me already. That you don't care -"

"No, but I do," Jason bursts out. "It's not an excuse, but I panicked. I thought if I could somehow drive you away, that I'd be able to go on and forget everything that happened. But I can't, and I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry I hurt you -"

He shakes his head, because he’s never been good with words. Never been good with saying what the truly means. “I just wanted you to know. That I want to make it up, I promise. If you’re still willing to give it another try – “

The expression on Dick's face softens marginally and he opens his mouth to say something.

But a tremor runs through the air, bridge coming alive underneath them with a long, shuddering, convulsion. Besides them, cars careen into each other, metal exploding to the background of screams ringing through the night sky. He feels a pull in his gut and he knows what's coming.

Jason stumbles to the ground and Dick catches himself, just barely on the railing. "We'll talk about this later," Dick shouts over the rising wail of the wind.

"Did Robin say whether or not he figured out how to get rid of these damn ghosts?" Jason yells, scrambling up on unsteady legs. If the pattern followed the last couple of times they appeared, it'd only be a matter of minutes before the bridge is completely destroyed.

Dick shakes his head, inching towards the end of the bridge, beyond which Jason make out the skyline Gotham. "I sent Haines to him and he said he'd try to convince Haines to figure something out. I'm pretty sure we're on our own for now."

Jason curses. "Alright, we have to get out of here before the whole thing goes down."

"If we can just – " The rest of what Dick was going to say is lost as his lips part in a surprised _oh_.

" _Nightwing – "_

A flash of silver slices through the air. Fletcher steps out from behind Dick, there's blood on his hands.

"So were you guys actually lovers or something?" Fletcher asks in disgust. "Guess it doesn't matter now." Dick tries to twist away with a jab of his elbows, but Fletcher sidesteps it easily and shoves his shoulder into Dick's chest.

Before Jason can do anything, Dick's tumbling over the rails and into the waters below. Fletcher turns at him and levels the knife at him, gripping the railing unsteadily. "Now, you can try to stop me. Or go save your friend."

Jason peers down at the churning water below and resists the urge to laugh hysterically – as if fate has decreed all things must lead back to the roll of the waves and crash of the tide. He looks at the churning sky, air wild with frenzied energy, and knows that _they're_ coming, drawn ceaselessly to Jason like the sea to the moon. Behind him, Fletcher is scrambling for the remote. If he doesn't act, the bridge will fall, whether by Fletcher's madness or by unholy wraiths.

He thinks back. _What do you want?_ And thinks it's all too easy to make a decision. With one last look at the darkness below, he sucks in a breath, flicks one last _fuck you_ finger at Fletcher and jumps.

The water is cold enough to make his chest spasm, and he swallows the instinctive motion to gasp, forcing his arms to propel him deeper. He flails around, icy grip of panic closing like a vice around his lungs. It's too familiar, the burn in his legs, the drag in his breath, and for a moment the darkness threatens to overwhelm him.

Then his fingers close on fabric, and a newfound energy shoots through him like electricity. He kicks upwards, vision starting to cloud over, every muscle screaming with protest.

They break the surface and Jason takes a jagged, painful breath. He forces himself to move towards shore, collapsing at the feel of soft ground underneath his palms. Lethargy makes the world spin briefly, and he stumbles forwards until his cheek is resting on the firm ground.

He closes his eyes in relief when he hears a weak sputter and cough from besides him. The image of Fletcher's knife flashing like starlight on the bridge replays through his mind over and over again. With the last dregs of energy he has, he rolls over and pulls himself to Dick's side.

Dick's eyes flutter like the wings of a bird as the salt from his blood mixes with the salt of the ocean. Jason desperately presses his hands into his side, spreading his fingers over Dick's pale skin, trying to staunch the flow of red that spills out making its way back into the slate gray of the sea. "You're gonna be fine, you hear?" He demands, voice rough with the burn of exhaustion and sea spray. " _Dick_."

Dick's hand tightens around Jason's wrist and he blinks at him weakly. "Yeah, I'm still mad at you, you know." His eyes are almost silver under the moonlight, startling alive, but his grip slackens. There's nothing Jason can do but run his fingers through the halo of hair swirling around Dick's pale face. Blood spills into his fingers into the water as the tide rushes in, washing rivulets and whorls through their intertwined figures.

Too exhausted to move, Jason fixes his eyes on the bridge looming above them and waits for the inevitable demise.

\---

Except it doesn't arrive.

Instead their salvation comes in three parts.

A dark, caped figure swoops in from the night sky and restrains the small, struggling figure of Fletcher. The bridge shakes under the onslaught of the wind, but doesn't crumble to flame.

The sky cracks open with a terrible roar, unearthly light reaching down to Earth, before a smaller silhouette, steps to the ledge of the bridge, shining device held above him, and stands his ground. For a moment, time freezes, then he's swallowed by the furious energy. The night sky loosens into a dark canvas, seamless as ever when he's gone.

And Tim, pale, but resolute, appears above them.

"Nightwing might insist on doing everything by himself, but he's a dumbass," Tim says tersely. Jason think he might just kiss him. Tim bends over Dick, worry twisting his face as the probes at the wound at Dick's stomach.

A nauseated feeling gnaws at Jason as he stares at the pallid complexion Dick had taken on. "Well that's something we can agree on."

Tim catches sight of Jason's gaze and his face softens. "He'll be fine – the blood makes it look worse than it really is. It might take a couple of weeks before he's ready to go again." 

Then he frowns. "And look, I don't know what's going on between you guys, but he deserves better."

"You're an ass," Jason tells him, but a languid relief settles in his limbs, makes it difficult to muster up any sort of energy to be annoyed. He settles into the muddy silt of the shore and closes his eyes for a well-deserved nap. "And yeah, maybe he does. But I'll make it up to him. I promised him that."

\---

In his dreams, he opens his eyes to pit-green waters, seizes the rocky precipice and begins to climb _._

Selina had been right about one thing, it’s easier to forgive than judge. And as he climbs his way back to the waking world, a knot loosens within him, like rust coming off of an age-long sleep. _One day_ , he thinks. He wakes just as his fingers brush the horizon.

\---

He wakes up in the mansion and makes his way to Dick's room, feet still remembering all the twists and turns of the familiar hallways. Dick is still sleeping, bandaged up, but alive. When Jason approaches the bed, he stirs awake, eyes opening in a daze.

The sun is rising, and in a few hours, the mansion will begin to wake with activity. Jason will be long gone before then. But for now, it's still, like it’s just the two of them alive in the world.

"Hey Dickie bird," he whispers.

Dick's eyes are slightly hazy from whatever painkillers he's on, but when they flicker over to look at Jason, something like understanding dawns in eyes. "You're leaving, aren't you?" he asks, voice raspy.

Jason swallows. "Well, yeah. Tim might be alright after all, but you know – I figured it'd be best to avoid the Bat." There's still too much history, too many unclosed wounds, to be mended right now.

"And Fletcher?" Dick shifts up until he's propped up on his elbows, blinking hard like he's trying to think through the fog.

"Gone. B took care of him. And Haines ended up stopping the ghosts, though I'm pretty sure he died in the process. Guess that bastard redeemed himself in the end."

Jason wonders how much of this conversation Dick will remember in the morning. Would he remember the way Jason is looking at him right now? Or would it be like a passing dream? A blur of colors and emotions, but nothing substantial. He hopes it’s the former.

Dick is already yawning, sinking down with a sleepy droop of his head. "And what about you? Don't think your off the hook just yet. You said you'd make it up to me."

"I will," Jason promises. "Maybe not now. But one day." There's some things he has to do for himself first. Things to prove, things to fix. “I promise.”

When Dick's breathing has evened to a slow and steady rhythm, he hoists his bag of goodies that hopefully Bruce won't notice is missing until later.

He jimmies open the window, and with one last look back, he leaps.

 

 

\---

 

 

 

_We have not touched the stars,_

_nor are we forgiven, which brings us back_

_to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,_

_not from the absence of violence, but despite_

_the abundance of it._

_\- Crush, Richard Siken_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks you so much to the mods who hosted this exchange! <3 (And also for being super patient with me when I decided to rewrite most of it right before the deadline ;;)
> 
> Just a couple more notes!
> 
> \- Walmart does apparently sell blow torches (and flamethrowers I think)  
> \- All football references are completely gratuitous (because I spent too much time watching the world cup instead of writing)  
> \- The underground Parisian fight rings were completely made up and I have no idea if they actually exist sorry!


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